


The Curious Case of Sherlock Holmes

by AnEarHat, playmelikeyourstratovarius



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Smut, alternative universe, like a buttload of angst, playmelikeyourstratovarius, rp fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnEarHat/pseuds/AnEarHat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/playmelikeyourstratovarius/pseuds/playmelikeyourstratovarius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes ages backwards and doesn't really mind until a very rainy day in London, a cup of tea, and a Doctor Watson happen. </p><p>(Rated M for future sexy times)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Roleplay that me and lovely lovely Lexy started wayyyyy back in February, so because of that, the structure is a little iffy at times, though I have tried to sort it out and make the order of things make a little more sense. I wrote the Sherlock parts and she wrote the John parts (I made them italic so you know which bits to admire (not even kiss-arsing she's just great)). This was like my favourite RP in the whole world so I'm putting it here so that both me and Lexy can find it and read it easily. That's all. Apologies if we (probably me) got carried away and went out of character at points or if writing quality slips. 
> 
> It's also really long else I'd post it all at once, but it has to be copied and pasted and checked and yaddayaddayadda so I'm going to do it in manageable chunks.  
> I'll shut up now. Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes was born as all babies are born, but he was not as all babies are. He was born as a tiny, wrinkly /man/, with the mind set of a baby.

His mind grew as all children's minds grow: quickly, curiously, and largely normally, but every day, Sherlock's body would appear one day younger rather than one day older.

As he grew, it was because of his strange phenomenon of a life that he found himself forcibly cutting himself off from other people, choosing quiet, non-judgemental solitude over stares and teasing that would come from people who knew his story. While this slowed the growth of his social skills, it gave chance for his intelligence to bloom. Mornings would be spent reading or teaching himself to play the violin, and afternoons would find him sitting by a window, watching the people go by. He became very observant, very quickly.

As his body got younger, and his mind more supple, he ventured out more. At first, the outside world was strange, scary. But soon, Sherlock developed a taste for it, and very quickly came to detest a day in which he could not step outside and /do/ things.

His body appeard to be in its mid-thirties when Sherlock Holmes decided to move far away, to a place where no one knew his story and where no one would ever come to know it unless it became necessary. A place where he could finally begin to live.

His body appeared to be in its mid-thirties when Sherlock Holmes met Dr. John Watson.

_John Watson had never been one for abnormalities. He had lived a normal life, going to normal medical school, enlisting normally in the army. He was a field doctor, and he had seen countless, countless battles. Countless deaths. Far too many for a lifetime. He had experienced it himself, receiving a near-fatal gunshot wound while in combat. Just a few centimetres lower, and it would have struck his heart, punctured a lung._

_Which is why when he got back to the city, he started taking care of himself a lot better. He got a normal job at St. Bart's - surgery, something he was good at with such a steady hand. He got a normal flat, by himself in the safer part of town. It was why he nearly didn't meet Mister Sherlock Holmes._

_He was walking down the sidewalk, and it was raining. He had his umbrella up, but tilted towards the wind, so he wouldn't get blown away, so he wouldn't get soaked. The way he was walking, the angle of his umbrella, was blocking his forward view, which was why he was surprised when he jostled into someone on what he thought was an empty street._

_"God, I'm sorry," he said, eyes flicking up, squinting automatically against the cold rain. His eyes met high cheekbones, and then deep aquamarine eyes. A man that couldn't be much younger than him stood before him, without an umbrella, just with his coat collar turned up. "Didn't see you, mate," he mumbled._

It was a dreadful day for Sherlock Holmes.

He had started out the day at his hotel, intending to spend the day trying to find a place to live permanently. Sherlock had never been one for forethought, though he realised now it would have been much easier to perhaps buy a place before packing up and moving. It was now nearing evening time, it was raining terribly, and he'd gone and gotten himself lost in London. Sherlock tried to shake the still-falling rain out of his hair and shut his eyes to try and retrace his steps back to the hotel, when his thought process was rudely interrupted by what Sherlock thought must have been an idiot not looking where he was going. He was about to make his presumption audible, when the man moved his umbrella to apologise and Sherlock could take a better look at him.

He was a Doctor, so, maybe not a /complete/ idiot, and he was walking, albeit slowly and with a rather noticeable (though psychosomatic) limp, so he must have known where he was going. He was friendly, too. Sherlock decided to forget about the fact that this man had just jostled him out of thought.

"Oh, it's.. Fine- sorry, could you please tell me where I am? I'm staying at the King's Lap Hotel, i'm quite new to London, you see."

_John sighed, blinking up at the man standing before him. "Well, you're on Baker Street! Quite far away from the hotel you're staying in, I would say." He looked down the block, and then back up at the stranger, towards the stoop of his flat, visible in the middle distance, and then back up at the stranger. "I don't think that I could tell you how to get back to your hotel, but you can come up to my flat and dry the chill from your bones, have a cup of tea while I call the hotel and ask them to send a cab." He smiled up at the stranger. Of course John was well-mannered and kind-hearted, but it was abnormally unlike him to invite strangers up to his flat for a cup of tea. For all he knew, the man before him could have a gun hidden under his long coat._  
  
 _"Come on, I insist," he found himself saying, nodding towards his flat, setting off down the walk. After a few strides, he looked over his shoulder to make sure the stranger was still following. "I'm John Watson," he said off-handedly, forgetting that he hadn't introduced himself. So much for being well-mannered. "So, what brings you to London?" He managed to slot his key into the lock, stepping inside and waiting for the taller man to enter._

Sherlock was baffled, frankly. He wasn't used to this sort of kindness from his own family, let alone a total stranger. He was speechless. The man, John, was being sincere, so he followed behind after dismissing his reluctance.

"Sherlock Holmes, erm.. Pleasure to meet you."

He explained as they climbed the stairs to John's flat that he had needed a fresh start in a new place. Upon entering the flat, Sherlock smiled as he looked around. It was a pleasant place. Large enough, but not so much that it didn't seem lived in. It was warmly lit when John flicked the light on, and all of the furniture was mis-matched in such a way that it looked as if they were supposed to be in a room together anyway. It was homely

_John shed his coat when he stepped into his flat. He hung it, sighing as he flicked the light on. "You can hang your coat over here, I'll start a fire, dry it up a bit." He smiled, making his way to the hearth, arranging a bit of wood and lighting it, poking and prodding until the flames were of a satisfactory size. He gestured towards the black armchair, indicating Sherlock should sit down._

_"How did you wind up in this part of the city, Mister Holmes?" the doctor asked as he filled the kettle and put it on to boil. He leaned on the doorway of the kitchen, taking the weight off of his bad leg, staring at Sherlock. "You would have had to walk pretty far." He smiled, shrugging his shoulders, moving back into the kitchen to find his directory. He dialed the hotel that Sherlock had said he was staying at, and asked them to send a cab to his flat for the man. "Ah, yes, the address is two-two-one-bee Baker Street. Yes thank you. Good evening." He looked in at Sherlock. "Cab will be here in about half an hour." He got out two mugs, pouring water into both, and then dropping in the tea bags to steep._

_He carried them into the living room, looking at Sherlock as he sat one down in front of him, smiling. "Do you have any friends here in the city? I can't imagine living in a hotel is any fun. You should be out, meeting people. Maybe get yourself a flatmate." He shrugged, sipping at his tea._

Sherlock did as he was invited to and settled next to the fire.

"Sherlock, please. But yes, I've been out all day. Looking for a place. A flat. Living out of a hotel is better than staying where I was," he smiled, "but I don't think I can keep it up." He patted his pocket where the outline of a wallet showed and chuckled slightly, taking his tea cup from John and nodding in thanks. "I suppose a flatshare would be good but..." He trailed off, unable to find the right words. It was difficult to explain that he aged backwards without appearing quite insane. "I'm not the easiest man to find a flatmate for, I suppose."

Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea. It was lovely tea, actually, just right. He thought that he wouldn't mind if the taxi took a little longer, a warm fire, good cup of tea, and geniunely friendly company seemed much more appealing than the hotel.

_John nodded knowingly. He had lived in the city all of his life, but he understood the reasoning behind the man coming to stay in the city, to get away from his problems. Whatever he left behind, in his past. "You chose one of the most upscale hotels in the city, too," he chuckled behind the rim of his mug. "I've been looking for a flatmate, myself. But no one wants to room up with me and my night terrors." He shrugged, setting his mug down, folding his hands in his lap. "Not too easy to find someone to move in, either, with how...paranoid I get sometimes, you know." He wrung his hands together._  
  
 _This situation had to be too good to be true. He was looking for a flatmate, and so was Sherlock. John licked his lips. Was he meant to run this stranger down tonight? It almost seemed that way. He sighed, staying silent, turning his eyes to gaze at the fire, watching the small puddle forming beneath Sherlock's long coat as it dripped dry._

Sherlock cocked his head, unsure how to react. "Paranoid?" he asked.

Silence followed, and Sherlock took the opportunity to have another look around. He'd assumed John already had a flatmate, but upon taking another look he could see that wasn't the case. The bookshelves were mostly empty, there was a groove on the sofa but on one side only, clearly John sat there alone. There were mug rings on the coffee table in front of the sofa but once again only on one side. There were no other coats hanging up with John's, just a scarf and empty hooks. His eye caught the clock. His taxi would be around twenty minutes.

Sherlock found himself disappointed that time was going so quickly, but he cursed himself for wanting to become friends with this man. He couldn't get too attached. John would notice, find out, and then leave Sherlock alone. Well alone. He looked back at John and smiled, but it felt like it looked sad.

_John cleared his throat after a moment. "Ehm, yes, paranoid. I don't...trust people. Often. Isn't that awful?" He chuckled, his eyes falling to his lap again, the jeans spotted dark with rainwater. "It gets lonely, but it's just... Since I've been back in London, I feel like people are around every corner, ready to attack me." He licked his lips, shrugging his shoulders. Embarrassed, he was embarrassed to talk about it. He never talked about his feelings with anyone but his therapist - who told him that he had 'trust issues.' It must be true, that's what he paid her the great amounts of money for, right?_  
  
 _His eyes flicked to the clock, then back to Sherlock's face, returning the smile only a few shades brighter. "Remind me when you leave to give you my card. We could get lunch together sometime, at least until you find someone better to share your company with." He chuckled, lifting his mug again, sipping the tea, letting the soft warmth in his throat soothe him._

"/Army/ Doctor.." Sherlock murmured to himself. "Of course."

John trusted him enough to let his guard down and tell him, even if only a little, about his issues. Maybe he'd be understanding about Sherlock's...

No, he couldn't risk it. He smiled politely at John. He really did want to meet him again, if only to get to know him enough to find a reason to avoid him. That was the excuse he gave himself anyway, as he grinned at John, trying to put them both back at ease. John seemed suddenly apprehensive after telling Sherlock about his paranoia. "Yes, John, I'd like that."

Sherlock smiled before setting his tea down and bringing his hands together beneath his chin.

_John arched a brow at the words spoken by the man opposite him. Had Sherlock really deduced that he was a doctor just by looking at him? He hadn't said that, right? He hadn't given up that piece of information? God, this was strange._  
  
 _The grin on Sherlock's face almost seemed to be hiding something, but John wouldn't press. /He/ certainly wasn't the type of person to ask what was wrong, if everything was okay. He avoided emotional confrontation - or that was how his doctor had put it. And that description seemed to fit well. "Well... Great. Maybe we can get something to eat one day this week. I'm free in the evenings after five. Tuesdays and Thursdays I'm on call at the surgery, but Monday, Wednesday Friday... I could do then." He shrugged, surprised at himself for making plans with a stranger that had just come off of the street. It was so unlike him - but maybe he was just desperate for the company._

  
"How about Friday? That gives me tomorrow to carry on searching for a place to live. If I can't, then I can be out of the city by Saturday. No point dilly-dallying, there are plenty of other cities."

_"Friday is perfect," John said. "I take a half-day at work, but I have...ehm... I have an appointment, then, after." He shrugged. Any time after five." He nodded slowly. "So, what do you do for a living, Sherlock?" He smiled._

Sherlock returned the smile and shifted in his seat. "I'm a consulting detective."

He picked up his tea and glanced at the clock again. Twelve minutes. He prayed the taxi driver would be late.

  _"A consulting detective? I've never heard of anyone in that field of work before. What do you do?" He sipped his tea, tipped it, and swallowing the last bit before sitting it down, empty._  
  
 _He had lowered his mug and looked up at Sherlock quick enough to see the man glance at the clock. His eyes narrowed, and he swallowed. Was he so eager to leave? After John had stepped over so many of his own lines and let him in to thaw and dry? He sighed, scratching his fingers through his sandy, blonde-grey hair._

Sherlock chuckled.

"Dr. Watson, I am endlessly grateful for your taking me in and offering me tea and warmth as well as good company. I was looking at the clock, actually, because I would like to carry on talking rather than be interrupted by a taxi driver. Don't worry."

_John swallowed hard, frowning as the consulting detective chuckled, seemed to read his mind. That was a crazy thing to think, right? That someone could read his mind They wouldn't find anything useful, or particularly pleasant... The doctor shook his head, clearing his throat, his brow furrowing. "How..." He pressed his lips together, shaking his head and looking to the fire, abandoning the question._

Sherlock smiled at John's shocked face. "I'm a consulting detective. It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me. There was an officer in my old town, D.I. Lestrade, who allowed me on his cases occasionally. I doubt he'd recognise me now but he moved to London a few years ago and I thought I might move close and convince him to let me start helping again. I don't get paid, but it keeps me alive. So I suppose that's what I do for a living. I'm the only on in the world. I invented the job."

Sherlock glanced around him again before returning his gaze to John.

_"If it's only been a few years, then surely he would still recognise you? Once you hit thirty, really, you look the same for a while." He chuckled. "Trust me, I know all about that." He crossed his legs, relaxing into the back of his chair, forearms resting on the chair's arms. "Invented the job," he repeated with a chuckle. "You are truly unique, Sherlock Holmes. I've never met anyone quite like you, I can tell you that already, and we have barely known each other half of an hour!" John flexed the muscles of his calf, moving his foot up and down for a moment, looking down at his sneakers before looking back at Sherlock, staring back into those bright aquamarine eyes. "Have you got yourself a girlfriend? I know you said that you're looking for a flatmate, but maybe she's long distance or something." He shrugged, polite smile still on his lips._

"Unique? I certainly hope that's a good thing. And girlfriend? No, I'm..." A virgin? Inexperienced? Aging backwards so I've never had a chance to get close to anyone? "...I'm single. Girlfriends aren't really my thing."

Sherlock smiled and set down his empty tea cup. He thought about what John had said about staying the same after 30. He had been on earth for 40 years, and his body would appear 30 in a few years. That gave him around five years of looking rather the same as he did currently, by his reckoning. He could stay in London for half a decade before he'd have to leave again. Sherlock used this as an excuse to allow himself to want to become friends with Dr. John Watson.

_John nodded slowly, one brow twitching upwards. "Right, no girlfriend. Boyfriend, then?" He cleared his throat, fidgeting nervously along the seam of his jeans. "Which is fine, by the way." He wasn't sure where this was going, why he was asking. Maybe he was just curious, but the more adventurous bit of him wanted to let himself believe that he was interested in perhaps letting Sherlock Holmes live in with him while he was in London._

_Realistically, it could work out. The company was nice, so far. Usually by this point, he would have said something to make his companion want to tear their hair out. He got the feeling that Sherlock had the same effect - just a gut feeling. They were around the same age, too, which helped a bit, as well. And maybe, possibly, John was interested in the strange sense of calm that Sherlock seemed to be able to lull him into, just by fixing him with a crystal, sea-green stare._

"I know it's fine." Sherlock said, looking John in the eye. "I'm single. Haven't got a boyfriend. Haven't got... Anyone." He looked at the clock. The taxi was due any minute. His disappointment, he was sure, became visible as he leant forward in his chair and steepled his hands beneath his chin once more. "Dare I say I look forward to seeing you again, Dr. Watson?"

He was allowing himself to grow rather fond of this man, from his cosy flat right the way in to his warm personality, and back out again to his friendly, dark eyes. Sherlock looked down at the floor and smiled, flicking his own eyes back up to John's.

_John let out a breathy chuckle, shrugging his shoulders. "Alright, I just wanted you to know it was all fine." He met Sherlock's gaze, brow furrowing and tongue flicking out to wet his lips as Sherlock said he didn't have anyone. Just like John. Even if John had Harry, it wasn't the same as having a friend, someone to trust, to have that fond relationship with. He followed the other male's gaze to the clock, and he sighed. It was about that time, and he was sure that he felt just as disappointed as Sherlock looked. "Yes, you dare," he said softly. A smile curled the corner of the doctor's lips upwards, and he stood, collecting the coat and scarf - quite a bit dryer - from their hook by the mantle and handing them to Sherlock. "John is fine, by the way," he added._

_"Ah, my mobile number..." He fumbled about in his pocket for the small silver case that held the cards with his personal information for patients, on the off-days that he worked at the clinic. He slid one out, and held it out for Sherlock. "The first number is my office, but the second is my personal mobile. You may...call, whenever you like. Or, if you prefer to text. I'm slow at it, but I've really got no preference."_

"Thank you... John." Sherlock said, looking down into John's eyes as he took the card. He stepped closer to take his warm, damp scarf and coat and smiled a little as he put them on. They were now tremendously uncomfortable. As a car horn beeped outside, Sherlock strode to the door which led to the stairs and held out a hand for John to shake, "Absolute pleasure to meet you John, thank you for the tea and for the company. I shall see you on Friday for dinner."

_John smiled, walking Sherlock to the door. He really felt like he could kick himself for not asking the cab come a bit later, just so he had more time alone with the curious case that was Sherlock Holmes. But Friday was only a few days away, so he wouldn't have to wait around, anxious and anticipating, for too long. He put his hand in Sherlock's, giving it a firm shake. "Wonderful meeting you, too," he said brightly, shutting the door after the tall detective._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to dinner, but this is not a date. Until it is a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rearrange a load of the paragraphs so if some of it doesn't make sense please let me know and I'll flail about trying to fix it

Back in his hotel room, showered and lazing around in his silk dressing gown, Sherlock picked his phone up from the table and flung himself down onto the plush bed. It really was a magnificent hotel, but he found himself wishing he were back at John's cosy flat. He reached over again to the bedside table and picked up John's card. Sherlock twiddled it between his fingers, feeling like a schoolgirl as he debated whether or not to send a text already. He had only met the man that day, and had only left him a few hours ago. He sighed as he punched John's mobile number into his phone anyway.

Good evening, John. SH

_John was sitting in front of the fire now, with a warm cup of tea, wrapped in his favourite flannel dressing gown, wearing his favourite blue flannel pyjamas. It was nice, time like this. Evenings all to himself. This evening had a slight edge to it, however, as everytime his phone lit up with a text, John pounced, thinking it was Sherlock. It wasn't, though, and felt a short surge of disappointment. He was about ready to call it an early night, go upstairs and curl up with a book, when his phone screen lit up, displaying a text from an unknown number. He couldn't stop the smile blooming over his face._

_Good evening. Sherlock, I presume? JW_

Sherlock chuckled.

Correct. SH

He paused before hitting Send, knowing he should probably add more to the text. Laughing at himself, he wondered what it was about this man that had struck Sherlock so much to make him want to impress and befriend him like this. Sherlock turned on his bedside lamp and pulled the string above his bed to turn the main one off, before wrapping himself up in his duvet and gripping his phone with both hands.

Correct. Thank you again for today. You really are marvellous at making tea. SH

_To keep himself from staring desperately at his phone, John set to work putting out the fire. He took his mug out to the sink and left it there to wash in the morning. When he came back into the sitting room, he saw that his phone was brightly announcing that he had a text. He picked it up, taking it upstairs with him, opening it with one hand as he shrugged out of his robe. A smile immediately crossed his face. Sitting down on the side of the bed, he pressed reply._   
  
_Thank you for the company. It was really nice having someone to share the kettle with, rather than making that solo cup for myself. JW_   
  
_He laid back in bed, curling up under his sheets, setting his phone beside him on the mattress. John chuckled, realising that he was behaving like a teenaged girl, staring at her phone, curled under the covers so her parents didn't know that she was texting her boyfriend late at night._

Well maybe you should get used to making brew for two. SH

Sherlock frowned at himself. Was he.. being friendly? Being funny? /Flirty/? He didn't know. He followed it up quickly with another text.

After all, you did say you wanted a flatmate. I was good practice, then. SH

There, he thought, that will make it look less weird. Sherlock plugged his phone in to charge and set it on the empty pillow next to him. He picked up his violin and plucked absentmindedly to distract himself from the space of time between his texts and John's

_John snatched at his phone automatically when he saw it light up again. When he opened the text, he swallowed, eyes widening. What did this mean? It was incredibly suggestive, and if John didn't have such a low self-image he would have thought that Sherlock Holmes was flirting with him. Was that possible, that a brilliant stranger would imply that there would be something between them?_   
_Before John could bring his thoughts together enough to reply, another text bubble popped up. Oh. Of course it hadn't been flirtation, just merely an observation. Why had he thought otherwise? That was stupid. He shook his head, trying to compose a reply._   
  
_I suppose so. Although, I doubt that I will have a flatmate anytime soon. JW_   
_In the mean time, I wouldn't mind having you around more often. JW_   
  
_What did he mean by that? Was there a hidden meaning behind it? John's thumb clicked 'send' before he could think any further on the subject._

Well I suppose once you find a nice girl to settle down with, you won't have to worry. But not before we've had dinner, I'd like to see you again before you steal off with a lady into the sunset. SH

_John laughed, actually laughed out loud at the concept of stealing off into the sunset with a woman. It seemed completely farfetched to him. Certainly laughable. He hadn't felt like this in a long time. Content, desiring the companionship. It was odd. He licked his lips, trying to think of something clever to reply with._

_Women 'aren't really my area.' JW_   
_Isn't that how you worded it? JW_

Sherlock grinned and, as it dimmed down to a smile, he tapped out a reply and turned his lamp off.

It's all fine. Goodnight, Dr. Watson. SH

_Goodnight, Mr. Holmes. JW_

_John sat his phone on the bedside table and turned onto his other side, wrapping up tight in his sheets, closing his eyes and falling asleep with a smile on his face_

All of Friday afternoon, Sherlock spent preparing himself for dinner with John. They arranged the previous night to meet at Angelo's, near Baker Street, and Sherlock wanted to make a better impression this time around. For one, he wouldn't be covered in rainwater with tremendous bags under his eyes after a day of walking. He wanted to make sure he looked good.

Even though he wasn't going on a date.

Sherlock got out of bed at around 1pm and pulled on some clothes, before trudging down to the reception and out of the hotel. He walked to the nearest supermarket so that the fresh air woke him up slightly, picking out from the bathroom aisle the most expensive shampoo and the soap he thought smelled nicest. He was told to leave after opening and smelling all of the body soaps but ignored the workers and took his time, making sure he made the right choice.

Once back at the hotel, Sherlock put his shampoo and soap inside of the shower and turned it onto the hottest setting he could handle. He shed his clothes and stepped in, washing his hair carefully three times and making sure that every inch of his body was properly scrubbed and buffed, smelling beautiful and feeling smooth.

Even though he wasn't going on a date.

He allowed himself to air-dry, not wanting a towel to make his skin itchy. He dried his hair and pulled on his newest socks and favourite underwear, spending the following two hours picking out the perfect suit for the evening out of his collection of perfect suits. Sherlock stood in front of the mirror. Tie or no tie? No tie. He straightened the jacket and looked himself up and down, pleased with his day's work. He was glad he looked good.

Even though he wasn't going on a date.

Sherlock checked the time and saw that he had 45 minutes until he was due to meet John, giving him just enough time to get a cab to Angelo's.

Once there, he waited outside for John and frowned as he noticed that he was nervous. His heart quickened slightly and his stomach kept flipping.

"But this isn't a date." he murmured.

_Friday morning came too early. He woke early, dressing in a fresh button-down shirt and nice khakis for work. His shower would be done when he got home from his appointment. Before he went out with Sherlock. Had dinner with Sherlock. Went to Angelo's with Sherlock? Was there really a good way to phrase it without it ending up sounding like a date. He shook his head. It wasn't a date, he was sure. So what if he thought it was a date? Sherlock...wouldn't. He was sure of /that/ fact, at least._

_The day at the surgery was spent mostly in his office, behind his desk, looking over patient files and constantly checking his mobile for texts. Answering calls with mundane questions and notes and constantly checking his mobile for texts. He left work, walking down into the private offices for his appointment with his therapist. A weekly thing, that he was sure that he didn't need._

_John told her all about Sherlock, everything that had happened, how they had met. She looked like her eyes were going to properly bug out of her head - it would have been comical if it wasn't that it was his life she was gawking over. He explained over and over that it wasn't a date, it wasn't romantic, but the way that she looked conveyed her doubt without words. Or was he paranoid? He /was/ paranoid, but was he just seeing her doubt? Maybe he did want the small glimmer of doubt. Maybe he did want it to be a date._

_Once home, he showered and shaved, smelling himself over and over again as he picked out clothes to wear. No pants but his red ones - he needed to do laundry. He put them on under black trousers, nice black shoes (that needed polishing), a deep blue button-up, and a grey jumper over top. He decided against the tie. There was no reason to be so formal, it wasn't like he was going on a date. He didn't have to impress Sherlock. He didn't._

_He took a cab - no reason to limp along to Angelo's - and he knew that his face was tight with nerves as he pulled up, seeing Sherlock standing just outside the door. He slid out of the cab, walking towards the taller man, hearing him murmur something. "Did you say something, Mister Holmes?" he said, smiling warmly._

"Ah, good evening Doctor! I was just muttering to myself. Shall we?" Sherlock opened the door for John, trying to smile over his nervousness, but being conscious not to smile too much, and wondering what his smile looked like to John, and if he should hide his teeth, or whether a big smile made him look friendlier. His mind was going at a million miles an hour.

_John smiled brightly at Sherlock, nodding a polite thank you as the detective held the door open for him. He walked past them, taking a table near the door, sitting with his back to the window, sighing contently. This was too much, this was so awkward. The tension could was tangible. He wasn't sure why it was so easy to text this man, but now that he was face-to-face with him, it was oh, so different. Licking his lips, John groped for something, anything to say. He was saved by Sherlock's joke, to which he replied with a breathy chuckle._

As they sat down, Sherlock picked up the menu and scanned it. He raised his eyes over the top of it to look at John. "Pity you don't work here, I'd love a good cup of tea right now," he joked, trying to ease the tension, though it wasn't uncomfortable. There was just the right amount of awkward.

Or there would be, if this was a date.

_"I actually thought about picking it up as a second job, just until I find someone to share my place with." He smiled at Sherlock, his own menu sitting on the table in front of him. He was going to eat the same thing now that he had every time he came here - a club sandwich and chips. It was light, and it was filling. "I could teach you to make tea like I do, you know, it's not hard. It might take a while to master it, but you know. As long as you don't hanging around with me." He laughed, shrugging his shoulders, resting his hands in his lap. Why had he been tempted to reach over, nudge Sherlock's shoulder playfully? That would have come off as extremely flirtatious, he was sure._   
  
_And this was /not/ a date._

Sherlock smiled.

Fuck it, he thought, if you don't just flirt now then you'll regret it later. You are attracted to this man. Now go.

"Hm, John, you could teach me, yes. But then I wouldn't have any excuse to spend time with you once I had learnt. I would much prefer it if you made it." He put his menu down and ordered a tomato and basil pasta as the waiter came, and looked towards John expectantly as he stared back. "Sorry," he flicked his eyes back up to the waiter, "can we have some champagne, too, while we wait for John here to order. The best you have, please."

_John watched Sherlock smile, and his return smile was just as warm and friendly. This was easier than he thought it would be. This not-date. Sherlock's words, however, had his brain short-circuiting and pulling to an abrupt stop, his jaw hanging a bit slack as he stared. That was undoubtedly, unmistakably flirting. There were no two ways about it. Sherlock was flirting with him, right here at their table in a restaurant. Did he think it was a date? He found that he had no grasp on the English language as the waiter came around, and he just stuttered a bit as he walked away, before looking down at the table then back up at Sherlock. Champagne, his brain finally caught on._

_"I'm sure you could find plenty of other reasons to spend time with me, Sherlock, if you wanted to." The reply was spilling from his lips, which were curled into a coy smile - god when did that happen? - before John even realised that he was speaking. Flirting, was he flirting? John Watson didn't flirt. Yet here he sat, plain as day, blatantly flirting with someone he had only met a few days ago!_

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Is that so?"

He thought himself to be rather good at flirting, for somewhat of a beginner. When he had appeared young enough for it to be acceptable to flirt, he had occasionally used it to get what he wanted from people who didn't know him. This was different, though.

Sherlock licked his lips as he settled his eyes on John. John's response had been positive, he had flirted back, and Sherlock was happy that all of his nerves weren't being put to waste. However, he had now brought more nerves upon himself.

What if John was just being polite? Had he come on too strong? Should he have ignored his instinct? He had only just realised he was attracted to John, he maybe should have held off on the flirting for a while. But what if he never had another chance? Sherlock tried to disguise all of his worries as he smiled up at the approaching waiter, champagne and glasses in hand. He thanked him and poured two glasses, pushing one over to John.

_John chuckled, leaning on the table, leaning closer to Sherlock. "Are you going to tell me that it isn't so, Mister Holmes?"_

_God, he was surprising himself. He didn't flirt. He wasn't the flirting type, he was truly horrible at it. But Sherlock seemed to be receptive to his poor attempts, and really, the detective had started it, so he decided that it wouldn't do too much harm to continue on with it._

_The doctor followed the other man's gaze, blinking stupidly as he looked up at the waiter. Had he really been dazed enough to think that there was no one else around, just himself, and Sherlock, and that beautifully deep, dark, rich voice? He cleared his throat, nodding at the waiter when he asked if John decided what he was having for dinner. Scrap the usual, he thought to himself. "I'll just...have what he's having." He nodded towards Sherlock, smiling politely in thanks as the man walked away._

_John lifted his hand, taking the glass that was pushed towards him. Champagne had never been one of his favourite drinks - he preferred a nice, stiff pint - but this was nice, light. Date-appropriate. If this was even a date? The lines were too blurred for John to decide. "So," he murmured. "How was your day today? Do anything interesting?" Light conversation, that had to be the best way to go. Right?_

Sherlock giggled slightly at John. He seemed quite flustered and embarrassed at the whole waiter thing.

"Calm down, John." he smiled. "It's only me. I'll buy you a pint once we're done with the meal aswell, if that's what you'd prefer. I just thought champagne might be more appropriate."

He sipped from his own glass. It was nice champagne, but he was hoping for nicer.

"I've actually had a rather boring day. So have you."

_"You say 'only me' as if you're insignificant."  John chuckled, shrugging his shoulders.  "I won't ask you to put up with me for more than a few hours, I'm sorry to say that I am not a great drunk.  I'm the sloppy, sappy kind.  So you know."  He looked down at the table, tracing the wood grain with his eyes as he sipped form his champagne flute. John's blue eyes snapped back upwards when he heard Sherlock say that he himself had had a boring day. "How could you possibly know that?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, brow furrowing. It was true, honestly, but there was no way Sherlock could know that._

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

"Oh but John, I am insignificant," he said. He cleared his throat as he began to explain his deduction. "You look tired. But not tired as in oh-christ-today-was-eventul way. Tired as in oh-christ-today-has-dragged way. You're relaxed but alert aswell, possibly because you want to enjoy yourself after a boring day, possibly because of nerves. Conclusion: you've had a boring day and want to change the pattern before tomorrow." Sherlock narrowed one of his eyes and cocked his head a little. "There's something else too." He shrugged it off and smiled at John, taking another sip of his drink.

_ John frowned, shaking his head. "You're more than significant," he said softly. A bit too much, too far? He didn't care, it was true. More than true. Sherlock had offered up a very interesting distraction from the boring tedium that was his life. At Sherlock's accurate deduction of his day, he felt his eyes widening. Was he that easy to read? Was he really that transparent? Or was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, really just that... "Brilliant," he said softly, staring directly back into Sherlock's eyes. "What else is there, though? You look confused about it." He chuckled. _

No one had ever called Sherlock significant, or anything similar. A warmth for John washed over him, and he knew concretely that following his instinct was right. This was right. "I don't know. Not yet. Oh, and John, I might as well buy you a drink that you at least enjoy. I don't think buying you a meal will quite suffice for your kindness the other day. If you prefer beer to champagne, then beer you shall have. It's the least I can do. Besides," he said, "if we're going to be spending more time together, it would be nice to see exactly what kind of drunk I may have to deal with." He looked up at John, making direct eye contact and flashing him a quick grin.

_"Really, Sherlock, you don't have to repay me for that. I was just being kind to my fellow man, you know?" He smiled warmly, before sipping again from his champagne flute, not moving his gaze from the detective's face. He didn't know how to react to someone offering to buy him a drink, after offering to pay for a nice dinner. Is this what women felt like when they were wined and dined by men? God, why was he thinking about /that/? He laughed, ignoring the strange flip his stomach did when Sherlock grinned at him. "I, ehm...I don't get drunk too often. Usually only on bad days, or days when I feel like being sappy and sloppy." He laughed, shrugging. "I mean, there's the possibility that I might throw up over your shoes. Or do something crazy like throw myself at you." He cleared his throat, face burning bright red. "Er...as long as you're okay with that, I won't deny going drinking."_

"I'd rather you didn't throw up on my shoes. They're quite expensive. I won't buy you too much. Just enough so that you will be amusing." Sherlock smiled, trying to put John at ease. He looked down at his hands. "And I'd much rather suavely take you on my arm than have you throw yourself at me, if it's all the same to you."

The response to that could go one of many ways. He hoped it would be the right one..

_John hummed softly, eyes still studying Sherlock's face. He was attractive, John really hadn't noticed that before. There was something about the set of his eyes, the way they fit into his face that had the doctor staring, absolutely captivated, trying to figure it out. "I won't throw up over your shoes, just be sure you turn me the opposite way. I'll throw up on another bloke's shoes." He returned Sherlock's smile, though inside his brain was a wreck. What if he got tipsy and tried something with Sherlock, something more than friendly. How would the detective even react? Sure, he was flirting now, but that might just be John misinterpreting signals._

_He laughed at Sherlock's remark about taking him on his arm. "If you'd like to make a big moment about it, sure, by all means, Mister Suave, take me on your arm." He smiled, shaking his head and looking back down at the table. "Sweep me off my feet," he chuckled, glancing back up at the other male's face._

"Do you know, Doctor Watson, I think I might just try."

He returned his eyes to those of the other man, staring intently into them. The smallest of smiles tugged at his mouth, and he could feel his heart quickening.

He was sure John was about to say something, when the young waiter returned with their food, setting it down in front of them.

_John watched the other's face lose all traces of joking, and he swallowed hard, thickly. He knew if he had had something in his mouth, he would have choked on it - that comment had definitely taken him by surprise. Sherlock must have meant it, there was no way someone could look that serious and /not/ be completely serious. He inhaled deeply, licking his lips. As soon as his lips parted to speak, though, the waiter came and sat their food down in front of them. He continued staring at Sherlock, almost unable to look away. The flicker of the blue-green gaze shocked him out of his reverie, and he looked down at his plate._

_"You know, Mister Holmes, I might just let you," he said softly to his plate of pasta, but he knew that Sherlock had heard him by the burn of the sharp gaze on his cheek_.

Sherlock bit his lip as he took one more look at John before picking up his cutlery. Oh, God. He was getting more than too attached to this man. He'd only end up getting hurt. He sighed.

The pair stayed relatively silent as they ate. The silence wasn't awkward, it was more that the two of them knew nothing needed to be said. Sherlock paid the bill and picked up John's jacket, helping him into it. He froze momentarily, and John looked up at him just as he sprang back to life. Sherlock led John out of the restaurant and out into the street.

"I have a marvellous idea," Sherlock proclaimed. "Where's the nearest late-night shop?"

_"An idea?" He frowned, looking up and down the street. "Ehm, it's about a block that way" - he pointed - "but I'm not sure where you're going with this." He smiled all the same, shrugging his shoulders._

"That is entirely the point!" Sherlock called back as he dashed off in the direction John had pointed. He didn't wait for John to catch up before he went into the shop, emerging with a bag just as John reached it.

_John watched Sherlock sprint off down the road, and he frowned, sighing. He looked the opposite way down the road, and then after the lanky figure sprinting off into the night. Slowly, he set off after him, limping along, muttering to himself. He blinked as Sherlock came out of the store, eying the paper bag in Sherlock's hand. His eyes lifted to the detective's face, and he licked his lips_.

"Take me to a park or something, John."

_"Alright, then," John murmured. "Just down this way, then." He continued down the street, glancing over his shoulder to be sure that Sherlock was following. "Just a couple blocks this way, then."_

The two strolled into the park. The sun had set not long ago and while half the sky was still a deep pinky-purple, the other was magnificently dark and clear. Sherlock said nothing as he slowed and sat on the dry grass near a small tree and up near a wall. He looked up at John and smiled, waiting for him to sit down too. Before he did, though, Sherlock opened the bag and pulled out a six-pack of beer for John, and a bottle of wine for himself. He grinned up again at John and then to the darkening sky, spying on the stars which were slowly revealing themselves.

_John watched Sherlock watching the sky. It was something quite beautiful, a sight that he would not be opposed to watching for a while. He cleared his throat, looking away from the detective, following him until he sat down under a tree. He watched as the long legs folded under the man's lanky frame, and he couldn't help the grin that spread across himself as Sherlock showed him the bottles of beer he had bought for him._

_"How did you know what sort of beer I liked?" he asked, sitting down and taking one of the bottles. They were cold, too. This was brilliant. He twisted the cap off of the bottle, taking a long drink from it. After a moment, he looked at Sherlock, smiling. "This has been a really nice night," he said softly, pulling his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on one knee._

"I didn't know, I noticed. I saw some in your fridge when you opened it to get the milk the other day." He turned his head to John as he picked up his bottle. "And yes, I quite agree. However, I took you for a meal and completely forgot about dessert. So.." he pulled out two large chocolate and caramel muffins from his bag with his free hand and passed them to John to be taken from their box while Sherlock opened his own drink.

_John smiled, a chuckle escaping him. "Of course you did," he murmured. The smile stuck on his face as Sherlock turned to look at him. He watched the other man pull the box of muffins from the paper sack, and he laughed. "You like these, too," he said, as if he couldn't believe it. He laid his legs out in front of him, wedging the bottle between his thighs and opening the box, setting it on the grass between them. He licked the bit of chocolate from his thumb that had gotten smudged on by the box. He let out a hum of appreciation, looking up at the stars, drinking again from his bottle._

As he took a drink, Sherlock looked over to John. He really was rather adorable, especially when he smiled. He looked warm and welcoming, something Sherlock had never thought about another person before.

_ John felt eyes on him, and he looked at Sherlock, meeting his eyes, smiling. "Hm? Something on my face? Or do you just like looking at my face?" He chuckled, draining the rest of the bottle and picking up another. He twisted that open, as well, sighing. His second beer. It only would take three until he got sloppy and soppy. But he wasn't worried about it with Sherlock. Sherlock made him feel like he could do anything short of passing out, and he would get home just fine. _

"Well no, there isn't anything on your face. I was just admiring it. No harm in that, is there?" he smiled, leaning back on his elbows and stretching out his legs. Sherlock took a swig of his wine and then picked up his cake, idly licking away some caramel that oozed out of the top. He felt like a teenager in a cliché romance movie, but he rather liked it.

The whole sky was dark by now, save the moon and stars, and as he looked back at John he could only see outlines and shades of grey lit up by the moon and the lamps on the park itself. He could see the sky beyond John's head as he stared, making it appear as though John's face was surrounded by stars. It seemed to Sherlock as though the evening had become a poem, and not one he was willing to stop reading. He smiled to himself and broke off a bit of his muffin, balancing the wine bottle against his ribs, and put it to his mouth, savouring every sensation.

_John chuckled, trying to deny the way his heart fluttered, the way that warmth seemed to spread through him, under his skin. "No, no harm at all." He watched the way that Sherlock spread his lanky body out on the grass, and he sighed, wondering what sorts of grass stains would be on the suit when Sherlock stood up, and whether or not the man would care. The way he was laying, looking up at the stars suggested quite the opposite, that he couldn't care less about anything else in the world than wine, and cake, and John. John had to swallow more beer to stop from blushing madly over the last part._   
  
_He tucked his bottle between his thighs again, picking up his own muffin, and opting for taking a bite off it - not a delicate approach, like Sherlock had taken, but he had accepted that he would never be as delicate as Sherlock. He licked the sticky caramel off of his lips and sighed, picking up his bottle and washing the sweet taste down with a swig of beer. "Made any progress on finding a flatmate, yet?" God, why had /that/ been the first question from his lips? Surely, that was inappropriate. That was suggestive - what was he suggesting? He knew that if Sherlock had indeed found a flatmate, that he would be disappointed, but he was just too - nervous? was that the word? - to ask the young detective to stay with him._

Sherlock's shoulders dropped. His gaze followed, and rested on his feet. He took another swig of wine.

"No. No, I haven't. Which means tonight is my last night in London, I suppose. No point sticking around forever." he was visibly deflated. "Thank you for making it memorable. I would have liked to stay, actually, if only to see more of you. I'm not worried about seeming too forward because of the little time left, I suppose. And the wine. Though I'm sorry if I am being, with... All of this.", he gestured to the cake and wine and beer and perfect surroundings and romantic scene and finally to himself. "I suppose it means that you think half of what I'm saying is meaningless, that I can say what I want because as of tonight we will never meet again, but I mean all of it. Thank you, John, tonight is a wonderful way to leave London behind." He slugged his wine again, almost half of the bottle already gone

_John watched the detective's body deflating, and he could feel his insides doing the same thing. Instead of staring at that sad, forlorn expression on Sherlock's face, he focused on draining the bottle in his hand, reaching for another as he felt the alcohol sweeping up into his head despite the large amount of food he had eaten. Sherlock was leaving already, so soon, too soon. He had just gotten comfortable with him, let himself be comfortable, let himself close to someone again, and now this? He honestly felt like he could cry at the images flashing across the back of his eyelids of Sherlock getting on a train, leaving him behind. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, trying to find something to say._

_"Stay with me," is what he said. There was a hint of a slur in his voice, and his eyes widened almost immediately, half-surprised, half-pleased with his suggestion. "I mean, what sort of destiny was it that you and I met that day. We're both looking for a flatmate and it would be such a waste for you not to get to really experience London." He blinked a few times at Sherlock, before he let a burp rise in his throat, covering his mouth with his wrist, nose wrinkling at the taste of caramel and stale beer._

_"I'm sorry if...I mean, I understand if you don't want to..." He swallowed, turning his eyes down to the grass between them. "I just...don't want you to leave..."_

Sherlock snapped his head up. Yes, yes, yes, god he wanted to say yes. But he couldn't.

"John, I..." he faultered. He looked John right in the eyes. Shifted his weight so his body was facing John entirely, and cupped his face, still looking him deep in the eyes. "John, if there is such a thing as a profound connection, then I think that destiny may indeed have intervened here. I don't know what I'm saying, so I must mean it. Tell me, John, do you believe in love at second sight? No! Shut up, don't answer. If it were so easy, I would run back to my hotel now and pack my cases to take straight to Baker Street. Is the whole idea stupid and preposterous? Fucking hell, yes. Are we drunk and flirty? Yes! But you and I know it should be right. It should be. But it isn't. I'm not... I'm not normal, John. You wouldn't believe me if I explained. I don't want to scare away my special stranger. It is better for us both if I get out of your life before I do something stupid like kiss you or bloody well move in with you."

All the while, he spoke in soft, hushed tones, their faces close, their alcoholic breath swirling in the space between them. He could not believe what he was saying to this man whom he had met only this week, he was pretty much declaring undying love for christ's sake. Sherlock was confused and conflicted. His condition was the root of all of his problems, this the biggest by far.

_John gasped as he felt Sherlock seize his chin, forcing their gaze to lock. The doctor's mouth was somewhat agape, his eyes wide as he stared back into the bright, beautiful blue eyes. God this was so perfect, Sherlock here, so close, whispering to him, smelling like wine and caramel and chocolate, and John wanted to taste him, he wanted to kiss him. Right, he should be focused in on what Sherlock was saying, it was important. He tuned back in at 'love at second sight,' and he was about to stumble over a reply, but he was stopped immediately. "Sherlock," he whispered as soon as the detective was done. "Sherlock I don't care if you're normal or not. God, who is normal! I'm sure that nothing will scare me away, not now, not after I've spent so much time since I met you thinking about you, and that...that means something right?"_

_He swallowed hard, gathering his resolve, moving closer, his eyes falling closed. "Move in with me Sherlock, please. I don't want you to leave me. I don't want to never see you again." And then, after a split second of hesitation, he pressed his lips to the soft full ones of the detective._

As their lips touched, Sherlock felt himself unfold. He kissed John back tenderly, and there was nothing except the two of them. Nothing but the slow movements of their lips and the warmth inside and between them. The taste of chocolate and caramel, wine and beer, heartbeat in tune with heartbeat, one mirroring the other. This, Sherlock was sure, was not the kind of kiss that could ever be replicated. As his senses came back to him, he pulled away and touched his forehead to John's. "Five years, John." he whispered

_John was melting into Sherlock, melting into that amazingly sweet kiss. Sherlock tasted just like he had been sure that he would, sweet upon sweet, wine and chocolate. This was perfect, like a scene right out of one of those silly romance movies where the guy gets the girl in the end, except this time, it was the guy getting the guy. Him and Sherlock. He let out a shaky breath as the detective pulled away, resting his forehead against John's. "F-Five years? Until what?" His voice was still a whisper, and he licked his lips, keeping his eyes squeezed shut._

"Five years until it becomes concrete in your head just how not-normal I am." Sherlock said, stroking John's jawline with his thumb. "If you intend to keep me around for that long."

_John tried to follow Sherlock's thought process, he really did, but it was hard with how intoxicated he was, with the feel of Sherlock's thumb along his skin. "Well...we can cross that bridge when we come to it," he mumbled. "We'll go and get your cases in the morning." He let his lips drift forwards, pressing against Sherlock's before pulling slowly away._

Sherlock knew this could only end in hurt, and yet here he was.

He knew what he would one day become, and that eventually he would need to stay with someone so that he could be properly... Looked after. But it would hurt John so. It would hurt them both. He knew it.

He also knew the only person he could ever settle down with was the man sat next to him now. Conflict was nowhere near enough to describe what was happening in his mind.

He sighed.

"So.. I could do with a cup of tea, if I'm honest."

_As soon as he heard Sherlock's comment about tea, John was laughing, flopping back against the grass. "Oh, Christ. I'll make you a cuppa when we get back, alright?"_

Sherlock smiled and lay down on the grass, arms and legs spread so he was mirroring the stars above him. It was in that moment that he decided he would let himself be happy. He had already let himself become attached to John, he might as well enjoy it while he could.

He whispered an apology to John, even though the other man wouldn't have known why, and closed his eyes, letting the alcohol wash through him as the night had washed over him

_John glanced over at sherlock when he heard the apology, frowning. He was about to ask what he was apologising for, but the sight of the detective spread out like a beautiful, brilliant star stopped him in his tracks. He wanted to thank him, for the beautiful night, for everything, but all of the words stuck in his throat. He closed his eyes, sighing._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexy domestic bliss. Ish.

_When John opened his eyes, it was still dark. His phone - after blinding him with its backlight - told him that it was half past three in the morning. He looked over at the man laying beside him on the grass, and he sighed. "Sherlock," he mumbled, gently shaking him. "Sherlock." His voice held a few traces of the slur the alcohol had given him, but all he could taste was caramel. "Sherlock, we've got to get out of the park, we're going to get arrested." He chuckled, sitting up slowly, rubbing his eyes._

Sherlock sat up and brushed the crumbs from his chest. His wine had long since tipped over and soaked into the grass. He groaned and stretched away his sleep. Sidling over to John, he murmured in his ear.

"So, your place or mine?"

Sherlock, still drunk with sleep and almost a whole bottle of wine, forgot his inhibitions and ran his tongue up the length of John's ear then nibbled his way back down. He chuckled and picked up their litter, stretching again in the cold moonlight. He ran a hand through his hair before holding it out to help John up, smiling sleepily at his new flatmate.

_John was still blinking himself out of sleep when he heard the smooth baritone in his ear, warm, wet tongue, soft nip of teeth. He was awake then, surely. He glanced over at the detective, smiling darkly. "Aren't they both the same place?" He chuckled, shaking his head, watching the detective cleaning up their mess._

_He took Sherlock's hand, standing up, but keeping a hold on the cool, slender fingers. He pulled Sherlock along, out of the park, only pausing for a moment to toss their trash away. "We'll have to walk, cabs don't run this late," he mumbled._

_Caught up in all the excitement, John had left his cane behind in the park, leaning against the tree they had fallen asleep under._

John's hand was warm in Sherlock's as they walked to Baker Street, arms swinging slightly. Sherlock looked down at John. Friendly, sleepy John. Sherlock was infinitely glad he could see straight through people and could tell that he wasn't moving in with a mass murderer. People moved in with strangers all the time, anyway. Go for an interview, pass the test, move in. Sherlock's only reservation was his condition. He had five years, though, roundabout. Five years of happiness. He bent down and pressed a kiss to John's head.

"So, John. Are we...?" he cleared his throat. "Flatmates, or.. Flatmates who kiss, or..."

_John was happy, content. This was what he needed, companionship. A flatmate, something more? As if the detective could read his mind - which John wad getting less and less confident that he couldn't - Sherlock asked what they were, what the label was on their relationship. John looked up at him, eyes sweeping over the beautiful pale skin, eyes that were bright even in the dim light from the street lamps._

_"Well...I guess we're flatmates that kiss, and go to dinner, and get drunk and eat muffins, and fall asleep in the park together, while watching the stars...And then walk home hand in hand..." He sighed, shrugging his shoulders, smile twitching at his lips. "What answer were you looking for?"_

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Not sure. Just wanted to know where my... Boundaries lie."

He slowed, became more tense, throwing frequent glances down to his companion. He let go of his hand.

"John, are you sure about this? You really want me, a complete stranger, an eccentric stranger, to move in with you?"

_John felt the way Sherlock tensed up, and he stopped walking when he felt the hand pulled out of his. He frowned up at Sherlock, his head tilting to one side. "Sherlock," he murmured. "I'm sure. I know that we were - are - drunk, but I meant what I said. You...you're different from anyone I've ever met before. I've been thinking about you all week." He swallowed hard, shrugging his shoulders, kicking his shoe against the walk, eyes down. "I don't want you to leave me," he whispered._

_He slowly held his hand out, fingers spread wide. "Come home with me," he said softly, eyes lifting to the aquamarine pair of the detective._

Sherlock took the hand offered, slowly curled his fingers into the gaps between John's. He stepped forward and used his free hand to tip John's chin upwards. He slowly brought his face down to John's, brought it tantalisingly close, taking his lips almost to those of his new whatever-John-was.

"If you insist," was all he said, moving his hand from John's chin to his hair, stroking it gently once before returning to his full height and continuing to walk home

_John let out a soft sigh of relief as Sherlock took his hand. His eyes widened when the detective loomed closer, coming so close. He smelled the sweet breath against his face, and his heart stuttered. Perfection, this was perfect, poetry even. "I do insist." A little shiver ran down his spine as they continued walking._

_"I think you can take the room on the first floor, just off the kitchen. I sleep upstairs." He chuckled. "Unless you'd like to go upstairs. I'd switch for you, to make you more comfortable."_

Sherlock grinned.

"Well I think I will take the downstairs one, yes, especially now that you're not limping."

_John stumbled over a reply to the limping comment, looking down at his empty hand and frowning. "I guess I...left it at the park," he finally said, brow furrowing as he looked back up at Sherlock. This was odd, how had he forgotten the limp?_

Sherlock chuckled, and as he saw the sign for Baker street just up ahead, an overwhemling sense of home washed over him.

"Though I haven't anything with me. Maybe I should pop back to the hotel, come.. Home.. In a couple of hours, when I have some fresh clothes and such. I should hate for you to think less of me in the morning when I still smell of tonight."

_When Sherlock suggested going back to the hotel and then coming back, his grip squeezing just a bit tighter. "I...you could if you like. It's just...far, and you shouldn't walk that far in the dark, and cabs don't come round Baker Street for another hour." He cleared his throat. "I could give you something to wear, if you like." He shrugged_

"Thank you, John, that's very kind."

Sherlock doubted that anything John could offer would fit, but he didn't really like the idea of waiting any longer to re-enter 221B Baker Street. He was now practically buzzing, both with excited happiness at how close and how perfect his new home was, and with nerves caused by his inhibitions; what if John changed his mind once he got to know Sherlock?

As the key was turned in the lock and the darkness from inside mixed with the darkness from outside, it was all Sherlock could do not to burst

_John opened the door to 221B, leading the way into the building. "Lock the door, please. My landlady doesn't like to keep the door unlocked." He walked up the stairs and pushed open the door to his flat. "I'll go get you some bed clothes, and maybe make you a pot of tea before you turn in." He smiled, climbing the stairs to his bedroom. He dug through his drawers, pulling out the flannel pyjamas that Harry had gotten for him for his birthday, the ones that were too long in the arms ans legs._

_He walked back down the stairs, smiling at Sherlock, tossing the flannels to him, smiling. "There you go. Bathroom is right through there." He pointed, moving into the kitchen to put the kettle on._

Sherlock was speechless. He was home. Already. It didn't quite register.

He closed the bathroom door behind himself and changed into the pyjamas that just about fit, washing and drying his face. Upon returning to the living room, he flung himself down on the sofa and murmured something about everything being too good to be true. Whilst walking home, the excitement and the chill in the air had suppressed his tiredness, but now, finally cosy in his new home and warm inside and out, he felt his eyes drooping again to the calming background noise of his John pottering around in the kitchen.

His John, had he really just thought that? His John? It suited Sherlock fine. John. His lovely John. Sherlock chuckled sleepily.

Sherlock felt sleep wrap him up slowly as he lay on the sofa, and sank into a deep, dreamless slumber.

_John heard Sherlock leave the lav, heard the creak of leather as the lanky frame collapsed onto the sofa. He poured himself a cuppa, sipping from it as he stood in the doorway, watching Sherlock, sprawled on the sofa and sleeping. Flatmate, his new flatmate. He felt his heart skip. Flatmate who...went out on dates with him and kissed and watched the stars in the park..._

_John walked his cup to the sink, rinsing it. He walked into the sitting room, reaching for the blanket folded over the back of the sofa. He spread it out over Sherlock's sleeping form, tucking it around him before climbing the stairs to his room. He changed into his own pyjamas, crawling into bed and curling up under his blankets, letting himself fall into sleep with images of dark curls and high cheekbones dancing behind his eyelids._

_*  *  *_

Towards the end of the week, after the moving around of possessions and bulk-brewing of tea, Sherlock often took it upon himself to curl up next to John and watch him type on his laptop. There had been no more kissing, no more intimate brushing of fingers against jawlines, no more ear nibbling. Nothing had even been said about the kisses in the park. Sherlock thought that maybe for John, it was drunken impulse, not regrettable but not to be repeated, much to his own dismay. He decided he could live with it though, staying close to John still made him happier than he ever had been before.

_John's life was grand, and getting better all the time. Sherlock moving into the flat with him was just the change he needed to get his life back around, to have enough variety to not go crazy stuck in the rut he had created for himself. It was nice, coming home, having dinner together (though Sherlock didn't eat very much very often), enjoying a nice cup of tea, sitting together while John blogged or sent emails or watched movies. The whole thing was simple, it was nice. Sweet._

_The one thing that bothered him was that they never seemed to talk about that night in the park. The night that they had exchanged kisses in the park, pulled each other close and let the scents of their breath swirl together in the cool night air. Sherlock never brought it up, and John didn't want to make Sherlock uncomfortable, so he didn't, either. It was simple this way, it just left John to stew in his own thoughts for a while._

Leaning his head on John's shoulder as he watched an old war movie, Sherlock moved his eyes around the flat that truly was now theirs. Sherlock's books and John's dvds sharing shelves, Sherlock's violin leaning against John's chair, their clothes thrown together in the wash basket. He felt wanted, like he belonged. Without thinking, he nuzzled against John's shoulder and pressed his lips to his neck.

_This particular evening, they were sitting on the couch, watching one of John's few war movies that he actually liked. When the detective moved to curl against his side, John put his arm around him, like he had done on the nights that he hadn't needed his hands to do something. His arm just draped loosely around Sherlock, and John could feel the man cuddling closer. A sign that he was bored out of his skull. His lips twisted up into a smile. He had been expecting that. What he hadn't been expecting was the feel of warm, soft lips against his neck._

_He blinked a few times before looking down at Sherlock, lifting his hand to card through the curls before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead._

"I don't want to hurt you, John." Sherlock sighed, before defying himself and swinging around to push his mouth to John's. It was different to the drunken kisses beneath the stars, this one felt real, and it was insistent. Fire crackling and quiet television, Sherlock holding John's head as he needily worked their mouths together, legs shuffling, and Sherlock ending up in his flatmate's lap. Kisses and breaths and two men yet to exchange the words they both felt in the pit of their stomachs.

_John sighed, shaking his head. "Sherlock," he started, meaning to protest, to finally talk about the unspoken tension between the pair of them. But there was no time to say anything else, for Sherlock's lips were suddenly attached to his own, and John didn't even try to protest, to push him away. Instead, he pulled Sherlock closer, desperately kissing him back, hands firm against the detective's lower back. There was a brief moment of gasping against each other's lips as Sherlock shuffled into his lap._

Sherlock pressed his torso entirely against John's, spread his hands out to cover as much area as possible as they moved over warm skin, and kissed as if these seconds were his last on earth.

_His breath hitched as Sherlock pressed closer, tight against him, close enough to feel the definition and the twitches of the detective's abdomen. His hands slid under the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, moving slowly over smooth, warm skin, over his back, tracing slowly up his spine. He didn't understand the desperation, but it pounded through his chest as well, made him pull Sherlock closer, kiss him with that much more, pouring everything he was feeling into the kiss._

Sherlock continued to push himself against John, and pulling John back, able to feel now his heartbeat through the layers between them.

"I think it wrong for me to ask more of you, John, but I can't help it any more, I can't.." He whispered into John's mouth between kisses, his razor sharp tongue flicking out at John's bottom lip. He pressed everything against John, maximising contact as far as possible, wanting to be covered by John, surrounded and enveloped by him. Sherlock bit down on the bottom lip his tongue had just outlined, letting loose a low moan from his chest.

_John could feel himself nearly vibrate against Sherlock's chest, and he knew if he wasn't holding onto smooth porcelain skin, his hands would be shaking. It had been so long since he had had anything like this. With anybody._

_"Sherlock, you don't need to feel bad," he whispered back, hands curling against Sherlock's skin, holding him tight, trying to pull the closer together. "He let out a soft noise as he felt teeth against his lower lip, and he slowly traced the beautiful Cupid's bow with the tip of his tongue, worming one hand from under the man's shirt to tangle into soft, dark curls_.

Sherlock's hands fell from John's head to his waistband, curling up under his shirt and sailing along his stomach, pushing up further to force it over his head so he could throw it on the floor.

Sherlock was taken aback by the sight of John's bare torso in front of him. Dark skin, covered in tiny pink scars, toned and muscular from his army days, but not overly so. Sherlock traced his fingers over the scars, each part of a story etched on John's skin. It was then that Sherlock knew for certain he was deeply and irreversably in love with John Watson.

_John felt his heart stutter as Sherlock's fingers touched his bare skin, under his shirt. Incredibly self-conscious as he was about his torso, the doctor found that he wasn't afraid for Sherlock to see. He sighed as the shirt was discarded, carefully watching the detective's face, trying to gauge his reaction, to find something on the pale, impassive face. The glint in Sherlock's eye said that he was interested in what he saw, maybe fascinated._

_"I...I'm sorry I'm not much to look at," he said softly, cheeks blushing pale pink. John was grateful for the flickering firelight that hid his warmed cheeks. He lifted his own hands hesitantly, gently tugging Sherlock's shirt up over his head, tossing it to the floor on top of his own. The sight of smooth, unmarred, pale white skin, glowing in the warm light of the fire made John's eyes widen, his jaw fall slack. Perfection. He had perfection in his lap._

_He would be crazy to admit he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. But, even crazier if he didn't._

"John if I could look at nothing but you for the rest of my life, do you know how quickly I would take up the offer?" Sherlock murmured without thinking, still enamoured by what he could see. His eyes travelled up to meet John's, but he found that instead of meeting them, they were focussed on his own torso. He took John's hand and held it over his own chest, making John feel his elevated pulse.

_John chuckled at the words that just seemed to spill from Sherlock's lips. "Is that so," he murmured, still transfixed on the skin that glowed like moonlight, displayed before his eyes. He glanced up, snapped out of his trance when Sherlock took his hand, laid it against that beautiful, smooth chest, just over his heart. John could feel the gentle thrum there, quicker than a heart at rest. He reached for the detective's hand, laying it over his own chest, just over his heart, just under the pink pucker of scar tissue, to show Sherlock a rhythm that beat close to his own. "You're lovely," he whispered._

Sherlock shushed John as he brought their lips together again, passionately kissing him, telling him more than words ever could. He wrapped his arms behind John and pulled them both sideways so they were lying on the sofa facing eachother, lips locked and each breathing the other in.

_J_ _ohn didn't dare protest as Sherlock brought their lips together again, and he kissed him him back, shivers running down his spine. He followed Sherlock as he laid down on his side, pulling the slender body close to keep him on the sofa, to keep Sherlock from falling off. That wouldn't be good, not at all. Especially because he was so addicted to the smooth warmth of Sherlock's skin on his own._

"I never let you answer me before," Sherlock murmured into John's mouth.

_"Answer you when?" he murmured, but he knew exactly when. That night, last week in the park. 'Do you believe in love at second sight? 'The words rang around inside his skull, he could hear them as if Sherlock was speaking to him, as if he was whispering the sentence over and over again into his ear._

"You know when, John. You know."

He pulled his head back slightly, the tips of their noses still touching. Sherlock looked into John's deep blue eyes, almost black in the dim light. His thumb found its way to John's cheek, rubbing slow ovals over it as his breaths became shaky.

"So answer now."

_John swallowed hard, his gaze locked on Sherlock's, not able to see anything but the brilliant aquamarine swimming just before his eyes. He licked his lips, blushing at the tip of his tongue brushed that beautiful Cupid's bow in the process. How should he answer? Should he be safe, or should he put everything out there, open himself up completely, risk being burned again._

_"Sherlock," he whispered, his cheeks flaming under the gentle touch, his own wavering breaths a beautiful counter-melody to the detective's. "I never did before I met you." His heart was slamming hard against his chest, climbing up into his throat, his entire body singing with nerves and anticipation_

Sherlock's breath caught in his chest. There was no way out now, the both of them were trapped and a horrible gilded cage. He sighed. John didn't deserve this, he deserved so much better; a life time of happiness with someone who could grow old with him. And yet he knew that neither of them wanted to spend the rest of their lives with anyone else.

"Good," he whispered, pressing their lips together again. "Because I don't think I believed in anything until I met you."

_John clung to Sherlock, pulled the man closer still, as if he was trying to mould them into the same person, no matter how impossible that was. He was still so unsure how this was happening, how he had wound up with someone like Sherlock. It had to have been some sort of odd destiny that the detective wound up walking down his block that day, that he had been lost and John had been in a kind mood._   
  
_"I wish I could have met you sooner. Everything...my life would be so much different. So much better, I'm sure."_

Sherkock's face dropped, became serious.

"You wouldn't have liked me all that much. I'm not normal, remember."

His eyes fell shut as his hands explored John. He wanted to remember everything about this moment, always, even when his body and mind became young and forgot everything else. This moment, he was determined, would stay with him forever.

_John frowned, shook his head. "You say that, Sherlock, but I'm sure I would have. Normal or not, you would have still been the same person." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the tip of the detective's nose. He wanted to know what Sherlock thought was so not normal, that it would scare away even the one man who was irreversibly in love with him._

"And you say that, John, but I wonder if you will still say that when you find out." Sherlock murmured, opening his eyes. He was terrified, and happy, and content, and in love. It was an exquisite tragedy, he felt.

_John shook his head. "If you wonder so much how I would react, then tell me, Sherlock. I promise that nothing will change the way I feel about you."_

Sherlock ignored John's request, pretended not to hear. He didn't want to risk it, didn't want to take the chance, not yet. His lips moved automatically to meet John's.

_John didn't miss how Sherlock edged away from the question, it was quite obvious. But he wouldn't press, not tonight. It was too late. So instead, he just pressed gentle, tender kisses to Sherlock's lips, fingers splaying against the man's back._

"I promise, John, that I will always love you. I can't promise many things, but this is one of them." He pulled the doctor close again, cradling him as the credits to the film played out in the background and the only sound was the slight crackle of the fire, and soft breathing. Sherlock giggled to himself.

"Christ, I only met you last week."

_John's smile curled slowly up his lips at the sound of Sherlock's quiet laugh. It was so soft, so light, so innocent. It made him feel like he was fat younger than thirty-five, that was for sure._

_"Love is a very quick-working drug, I hear," he mumbled against the beautiful full lips of the man curled up against him._

"I'm tired, John. I'm so tired." Sherlock murmured after a long pause. And he was tired. Tired of himself, tired of being a freak, tired of worrying. Tired in general, too, though he didn't want to move from John's arms to go to his bed. That, in fact, seemed like the worst thing to do. He yawned slightly against John's cheek and nuzzled into his neck, savouring the warmth, the movement, the smell, feel, taste, and reality of John.

_John could feel thousands of different meanings to Sherlock's statement, and he sighed. "Stay here then, love. I've got you." He just hoped Sherlock would understand the weight of his statement, what he actually meant._

"Flatmates who kiss on the sofa and strip eachother half naked whilst making declarations of love." murmured Sherlock sleepily, a tiny smile slow-dancing across his face.

_"Flatmates who were strangers weeks ago, but never want to be separated ever again, now," he whispered, pulling Sherlock's body tight against his, holding him, letting his eyes fall closed._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years, John.
> 
> John finds out about Sherlock's condition.

The fifth year crept up on them all too quickly. Time often flies when it most needs to slow down.

Sherlock stood in front of the bathroom mirror, remembering his first night with John, trying to remember what he had looked like exactly. It had only been five years, but he had overestimated. Certainly now, as he looked, his curls had a little more bounce and his eyes a little more sparkle than when he had first met John. He had thought perhaps John had something to do with it, happiness did have that effect on people, but it was definitely visible; his condition. He stood and stared, pulling at his skin, studying every millimetre. His body appeared 30 when it should be 40. And it was only going to get worse. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh between his teeth, pacing up and down the bathroom floor. He composed himself as much as he could, trying to prepare himself for telling John, and what would happen, and how quickly his happiness would be ripped from his chest. John would think him insane, would leave him in a heartbeat. But he had to know. Five years, he'd told him. Sherlock ripped the bathroom door open and walked to sit across from John and his newspaper.

 

_Five years. Five long, beautiful years, and John had never been this happy with anybody before. Sherlock was so unique, so special, and he felt like the luckiest man every day just being able to wake up beside him every morning._

_It was very close to his fortieth birthday now, just a few weeks off. There were no plans made yet, but he was sure Sherlock would do something great, something fantastic. Just like last year, the year before that. Their birthdays were the days that they repeated the very first night they met, eating at Angelo's and watching the stars in the park. It was their thing, it was what they did, it was routine for him. And he loved that, really he did. John smiled into his tea mug, just thinking about it. He turned the page of his newspaper, sipping from his tea. Every morning, this was what he did. When he heard the door to the bathroom slam open, his eyes snapped up, brow furrowing in concern, highlighting all of the wrinkles that had formed on his brow since Sherlock had moved in. He stared at the man before him, deep blue eyes scanning over the face before him, the face that still looked as young as the day they had met, if not younger. He murmured a soft 'good morning,' before Sherlock started rambling at him._

"I'm ready. I'm ready to tell you. But before I do, John, please remember that I love you and that I never wanted to hurt you. Not ever. You are the most important thing in my life, I love you so much, John. I would never lie, not to you, you know I wouldn't. You deserve so much better than me, than what I'm about to tell you, and I understand if you want me to pack my bags and leave. I'm so sorry."

_John's frown deepened, and he sat down his mug and even closed and folded his paper, setting it to the side so he could lean across the table, reach for Sherlock's hand. He took it in both of his, gently running his fingers over soft, smooth skin. "Sherlock, I would never ask you to leave," he said, an air of incredulousness in his voice. "I love you so much." He brought the hand to his lips, brushed a soft kiss along the knuckles. "You can tell me anything. Anything at all, you know that."_

Sherlock had never cried before. Not when he was told about his condition, not when he was mocked and bullied, not when he left home. But he cried now. He wept as he held John's hands now against his own face, weeped into them.

"Oh you'll think me insane." he murmured beneath his tears. "You'll hate me and you won't believe me. Even if you do believe me you will hate me. Oh, God, John."

He brushed kisses along John's knuckles, savouring the sturdy hands and the warmth while he could. He fell from his chair to sit before John on the floor.

"Five years, John, I told you, five years until you realise. Don't you see? ...John, look at me. Really look. It's been five years since we met, since I fell in love with you. Do you not think I should look older than I do? Do you not think that now, I look younger than I did? I do. I do, John. It's always been like this." He looked up at John's confused and worried face. "I can't sweeten this. John... I was born.. Different. I wasn't... I wasn't a baby. I was a tiny old man. I had the body of a 70 year old and the mind of a newborn. My mind is as it should be, but.. My body.. Ages backwards. Today I should have the body of a 40 year old, when really it looks about 30. I don't know why. Nobody does. But one day..." He sighed, "I will continue to age backwards, all my life. I'll be in my twenties, then I will be a teenager, then a child, and one day... I will be a toddler. Un-learning how to walk, talk. I don't know what I will remember, who I will remember. I don't know anything. It's terrifying. And I will die. I will die in the body of a newborn." He wiped the tears that were streaming down his face, looked down at the floor. "I don't expect you to believe me and I certainly don't expect you to stay. I expect you to think I'm insane. I know I would if I were you. I'm sorry, John. I never wanted to hurt you. God, I love you so much."

_John was worried, extremely worried. Sherlock had never cried. Not through any of their spats, not through anything that they had been through together. But here he sat, sobbing against John's rough skin, in a crumpled heap on the floor. He paid close attention to everything that Sherlock was saying, trying to find something that made sense, to understand what was going on. He didn't know when he had started shaking his head, when his jaw had fallen open, but here he sat, staring at Sherlock's face - Sherlock's /young/ face. God, how had he not seen it before, how had he not seen his lover growing younger before his very eyes? He felt so stupid, so incredibly stupid. So thick. Emotions flooded through him as Sherlock spoke about unlearning everything, forgetting everything about his life, everything about John? The doctor closed his mouth, cleared his throat, shook his head one last time - emphatically - before pulling his hands from Sherlock's grip._

_He sat like that for a moment, just staring, brow furrowed, frown deep, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. He knew that, realistically, he should leave, he should make Sherlock move out and move on, find somewhere else to live, someone else to un-age with. Un-age, was that even the proper word for it? God, John didn't know, he was so past confused. He swallowed, closing his eyes. He couldn't do that, though, he couldn't leave Sherlock like that, not after five years of love and promises._

_Slowly, his eyes opened, and he reached down, cradling Sherlock's head between his firm hands, sweeping his thumbs over the smooth cheeks - cheeks that /should/ have some sort of wrinkles - wiping away tears. "Sherlock," he whispered. "I'm not...going anywhere, and neither are you. I don't have any choice but to believe you, really, when the proof is right here in front of my face, right? Is it insane? Yes, more than that. But I'm not leaving you. I promised you I never would, and I meant it. I love you more than life itself, how could I abandon you now?" He let a small smile flicker across his lips as he carded his hair through dark curls, one hand still cupping the detective's jaw._

Sherlock looked up, fully expecting to have his heart broken, and instead was overwhelmed with a sense of love undeserved. He collapsed against John, hugging his knees and letting out great sobs.

_John saw the fear gleam in Sherlcok's eyes, and he sighed as the man collapsed against his legs, soaking the knees of his jeans with tears. "Sherlock," he murmured, softly, soothingly, his face softening and his hands gently weaving through the man's dark hair. Clearly, this wasn't what Sherlock had been expecting. He had been expecting John to yell or call him crazy or kick him out, and John immediately felt bad for even considering any of those things. This man needed love, that was what he needed. Love, and care, and someone who would be there for him when he was too young to do things by himself. John had always wanted a child, and now he would be able to care for one, before he died._

"I love you, I love you, oh John, God I'm so sorry, I love you, you are perfect, I love you." he shuddered out as he cried. He sat up and took John's face in his hands as he carried on repeating his words, saying them still as he pushed kiss after kiss against John's lips.

"I love you so much. I don't deserve you. You deserve happiness forever. I love you," he whispered now against John's cheek.

_"God, Sherlock, I love you, too," he murmured, returning each kiss, his own hands cradling the back of Sherlock's neck as the detective held him close, held him tight. The doctor slowly nuzzled his face against Sherlock's, his lips resting at the man's ear. "As long as I've got you, I don't have to worry about not being happy. You're perfect, Sherlock, and I will love you to the end of my days, and the end of yours." His arms circled the narrow waist, and he pulled the slender body up onto his lap, pulling him close, holding him tight._

With John's arms around him, Sherlock closed his eyes and was able to calm down. The fear stayed, and he knew it would never really leave. But he knew John wouldn't either. His breathing slowed and the tears stopped. Sherlock lifted his head and kissed John, kissed him as if it were their first night under the stars again.

"I'm so sorry."

_John held onto Sherlock until he was sure that the crying was done, that the last sob had wrenched its way through those perfect, heart-shaped lips, that the detective on his lap was done convulsing with the aftermath of tears. He received Sherlock's kiss, kissing him back like nothing had happened, like it was his birthday, like there was a blanket of stars over London as beautiful as that very first night._

_"Why are you sorry?" he whispered against lips that he wasn't quite ready to let go of yet. "There's nothing at all to be sorry for."_

Sherlock stood and held out his hand, fingers spread, just as John had done when he had told Sherlock to come home with him.

"Come to bed with me."

_John licked his lips, letting Sherlock go, watching the slender body unfold and straighten before him. There would never be enough words to describe just how beautiful Sherlock Holmes truly was._

_Without a second thought, John placed his hand in the detective's, lacing their fingers together as he stood up, following curiously to the bedroom that had stopped being /Sherlock's/ about two weeks after the man moved in. /Their/ bedroom._

Sherlock led John to their room and pressed him against the door as it closed, slowly and firmly held him up against it, kissing him in the same way. He stooped to pick John's legs up from the floor and wrapped them around his own waist, holding him up against the door still, kissing him slowly and deeply. He brought his hands up to John's shirt, unbuttoning it as his kisses moved from his mouth to his jawline and to his neck, soft, slow kisses pressed to warm, flushed skin. He pulled away and wrapped his arms around John as he carried him over to the bed, placing him down gently and climbing on top of him, making their lips meet again.

_Of course they had done this together before. But there was something about this time - something electric and crackling - that made John sure that this time was different, that this was something far greater than just sexual connection._

Sherlock sighed against skin as he started to remove his own shirt and his bare chest brushed against John's. Now that John knew the pair only had limited time for this sort of thing, Sherlock wanted to make this time count. Make each time count. He ground his crotch against John's, long, slow strokes, sighing into his ear. His tongue found an earlobe and ran up it, followed by his teeth and a gentle suck. His hands found skin, warm and soft, squeezing and stroking at his waist, arm, face. He found John; wonderful, beautiful, accepting, understanding, perfect John.

_John arched his body towards the man on top of him, indulging in the sweet feel of skin on skin. The sensation sent tingles shooting up his spine. "Sherlock." A whisper of his name to match the whisper of hands across his body , the whisper of lips over his ear. He lifted his hips back into Sherlock's, hand lifting to tangle into soft, dark curls, lips capturing lips again. Every kiss was slow, sweet, drawn out until they were almost too long - but not sloppy, everything was precise and beautiful._

"I need you John, I always have. I always will. But right now, I want you, too." Sherlock murmured into John's ear, snaking a hand to the waistline of John's jeans and deftly unbuttoning them, before running his hand back up John's torso to the side of his neck, pulling to join their lips together again. Sherlock's body was fluid, warm and smooth and alive, ripples coursing through him with each beat of John's heart.

_John felt a shiver surge through him, and he sighed, eyes squeezed shut, feeling and touching and tasting rather than seeing. "God, Sherlock," he whispered, "take me, then. I'm all yours, always have been yours." His strong, calloused hands slowly slid down the skin of Sherlock's back, relishing the feel of muscles flexing under his skin, the smooth, flushed surface. Beautiful, Sherlock was beautiful. The doctor let his hands slowly slip between Sherlock's trousers and his pants, gently gripping the man's buttocks._

Sherlock gripped John by his hips and turned them both over, reversing their positions. From beneath, Sherlock pulled John's jeans down and allowed John to pull them off completely, whilst Sherlock reveled in the sturdy beauty that was John. A hand found its way to John's head, sailing through soft, sandy hair. Sherlock had never thought that anyone could love another quite as much as he loved the man with him now.

"I want you to take me. I want you.

_John pushed his jeans off of his hips, kicking them off, and slowly pulling down Sherlock's trousers as well. He tossed away the fabric, laying himself back between slender, strong, pale legs, kissing down Sherlock's neck to his collarbone, sucking the skin there gently. "God, you're beautiful," he whispered, fingers moving over the delicate perfection that was laying below him._

_"How did I end up with someone as perfect as you? How did I get so lucky?" His lips pressed back to the beautiful heart-shaped lips again, claiming them gently with his own, parting them carefully with his tongue._

Sherlock welcomed John into his mouth, sucking on his tongue gently and biting his bottom lip. He slipped his hands into John's boxers and gripped the flushed skin beneath, pushing down to bring John closer and sending a ripple of arousal between the two. His lips opened wider as the kisses became deeper and more needy, and he pulled John's underwear down completely, reveling in the shape of warmth on his stomach when John pressed against him. Sherlock arched his back and tipped his head up, moving slowly beneath John and letting out a rich, low moan.

He brought his face back down to John's.

"Tremendous misfortune on your part, I would imagine." he murmured, deep and seductive, before biting down hard on John's bottom lip and beginning to move faster beneath him, hips rocking and hands adventurous.

_John gasped as he felt the man's hands slip beneath the elastic of his pants, fingers cool against his flushed flesh. He could feel the desperation growing between them, could feel all of his muscles responding to Sherlock's body beneath him, and he pressed against him, rolling their hips together. The doctor's lips trailed down over the detective's throat, feeling the deep sound of Sherlock's moan shaking through his body, seeming to light up every nerve in his body. A shudder tore through him, and he gently sucked a small, purple bruise into the hollow of the man's throat. The word /Mine/ shot through his mind like an arrow, and it exhilerated him to know it was true._   
  
_"God, yeah, you're probably right. Didn't I just get dealt the unlucky hand," he whispered against Sherlock's lips, letting out a sharp moan as he felt teeth against his bottom lip. His hands worked quickly, and in a few moments he was pulling away from the desperate kiss, the writhing body to toss away Sherlock's pants. Nude now, they were both nude. John's usually nimble and sure fingers fumbled in a table drawer for the bottle of lubricant that they always kept there, for times exactly like these._   
  
_His eyes met Sherlock's clear aquamarines, darkened with lust and need and love, as he popped open the cap on the small tube. He turned it over the fingers of his left hand, squeezing a generous amount and thoroughly coating three fingers, before nestling himself back between the long, pale thighs. "You're so gorgeous," he whispered, index finger slowly circling the tight, puckered ring of muscle, not pressing in just yet._

Sherlock let out a gasp and squeezed shut his eyes at the feel of John, his fingers knowing just what to touch, how to move, to leave Sherlock vulnerable and completely under control. His toes curled as he opened his eyes to see John, /his/ John, and reminded himself that this wonderful man wanted /him/.

His hips bucked up to meet John's and wriggled back to wrap his legs around the writhing waist above him.

"How is it," he murmured, just about to get his words out, "that after four and a half years of us having sex, you still know how to make it-" his mouth let out a gasp as John pressed harder, teasing him almost to the point of frustration, "...so exciting?", he let out in a sigh. He licked his lips and pressed them to the side of John's neck, nibbling gently before biting down hard and sucking down to soothe it.

_John slowly - carefully, always carefully, as if Sherlock would break apart underneath him if he touched to hard, if he gripped him too tight anywhere - stroked around Sherlock's taught entrance, finger gently pressing inside, easing in until he was up to his knuckle. A grin flitted across his face as Sherlock let out a gasp, felt the lovely lilt of hips pressing against his hand, begging for the contact, begging for more. A gasp of his own left his lips as the detective's teeth snapped shut on his neck. God, there would be a bruise there when they were finished._

_"I guess I just know your body," he whispered. "I know you well enough to know /where/ to touch you." As if to prove his point, he gently stroked over the firm bundle of nerves that was his lover's prostate._

Sherlock came apart completely, choking out John's name as he tipped his head back. He was commiting each second to memory, determined to remember this for as long as possible.

"I love you, John. I fucking love you." he writhed with his words, clawing at John's neck in his desperation.

_John was so lost in the feeling of Sherlock's body writhing against his own, heat clamping down on his fingers, that he wasn't even bothered by the desperate shredding at his neck. A second finger eased slowly into Sherlock's entrance, and he carefully and slowly scissored apart, clever, deft, gentle fingers ghosting gentle touches against the detective's prostate to keep the burn from being too much. Couldn't hurt Sherlock, wouldn't let himself, would never forgive himself._   
  
_"I love you even more than that, Sherlock. Fucking Christ, you have no idea." He kept his deep, dark blue eyes fixed on Sherlock's face, watching it twist and twitch with ecstasy. Nothing more beautiful in the world, he was sure._

John. Sherlock closed his eyes and opened his mouth and everything was John. Inside of him, on top of him, all he could feel, breathe, taste, and hear, was John. There was nothing else in the world except him and John and the bed they were together on. Wave after wave of pleasure, wave after wave of John.

All the calm from earlier dissipated and Sherlock turned to raw energy; writhing and bucking, kissing, sucking, biting, grunting in John's ear.

_John's own breathing was becoming unsteady as Sherlock erupted to life beneath him, hips pressing up into his own almost desperately. "Calm down," he whispered, his own voice trembling. He extracted his fingers, slowly running them over his own arousal. He slowly lined himself up, one hand pressing down on Sherlock's abdomen, keeping him still as he guided himself in with his other hand, slowly and gently filling the man up, pressing in until their bodies were as close as they could be._   
  
_It was then that he laid himself over Sherlock, his lips meeting the beautiful, full ones of the detective. He kissed him with all of the heat and the passion he had been repressing while keeping his calm and preparing Sherlock. It was all coming out now as he rocked slowly into Sherlock, hands moving slowly up under Sherlock's back, resting under his shoulders, holding him tight against his body._

Sherlock welcomed John in, whispering his name over and over like a mantra. He gripped John's shoulders as their waists moved together, the skin of their stomachs rubbing against his own erection. His eyes flicked to John's, dark and filled with lust, and Sherlock's stomach flipped as a shot of arousal ran through him. It was so perfect, they were so perfect.

_John listened to Sherlock's deep voice cracking as he whispered his name. God, this was heaven, this is what heaven was meant to be. He let out a soft moan, fingers massaging the skin just under his shoulder blades, pressing the tips of his fingers there. He placed a slow trail of kisses against Sherlock's jaw, keeping the pace of his hips slow. This didn't have to be hurried, he could take his time, they could ease into everything. No rush, they had time. "I love you," he whispered, breath sweeping over skin already beading with sweat._

"And I love you, so much, you have no idea", he whispered, his words flowing through the slow thrusts between them. He moaned quietly with each movement, little yelps of pleasure escaping his open lips. He brushed his thumb against John's cheek and pulled his head down to kiss him, teasing his lips open with a nudge of his tongue, reveling in the warmth of John on every part of his body.

_John accepted Sherlock's kiss, letting the detective part his lips, his tongue stroking over Sherlock's with the same slow and gentle rhythm that his hips rocked into him. Slowly, John slid his hand from under the slender body, letting his fingers drift down over the smooth, hairless chest to carefully wrap around his lover's arousal, to stroke him in time with the thrusts of his hips, his wrist twisting slightly as he did so._

It was all too heavenly for Sherlock, John was on, inside, and around him and there was no place Sherlock would rather him be. He arched his back and let a gasp into John's mouth, all of his worries forgotten, because he had John, and John was /here/.

Sherlock lost himself and let himself go, sinking deeper and deeper into total bliss, whispering John's name into his mouth, grasping at him. His arms, lower back, buttocks, shoulders, feeling the muscles working and moving and living. Perfection in motion.

_John felt the air pulled from his lungs as Sherlock gasped against his lips. If this is what it felt like for two beings to he in complete symbiosis with each other, then John never wanted to give up this feeling. No one else would ever be good enough for him, now that he had had his Sherlock. No one else could ever compare._

_The doctor responded to every whisper of his name with one of Sherlock's own, until their voices all blended together, whispers of promises and love and hope and eternity, conveyed in the way the men let their lover's name spill through their lips. John let his lips move just a hair faster, changing the tilt, the angle, making it so he could press and drag over the little bundle of nerves that would make the detective see stars._

Sherlock's eyes snapped open wide at the sudden stimulation, and yet he could see nothing. Loud, course yelps burst from his chest with each brush of his prostate, his nails digging into John's skin and leaving red tracks in their path. He moved his hips faster with John's, intensifying the experience for both of them.

"Oh, God, John, John. I'm close, John, I'm close."

_John moaned at the sharp feel of nails dragging across his back, and his eyes fell closed at the feel of Sherlock's muscles twothing around him at each brush of his prostate. God, he could go on like this forever, if his stamina would let him. Sherlock's words sounded like a plea, like he was begging for John, begging for more, for release, for John to take him apart and put him back together._

_"God, Sherlock, please," he whispered against the man's throat. "Go, please, Sherlock, you go first."_

Sherlock's hips quickened, maximising the pleasure in the last few seconds of the best sex they had ever had. He pushed up and down, his legs twitching around John's waist and his breaths becoming more rapid.

As his own hot liquid spurted in bursts onto his stomach, he choked out John's name and threw his arms around his neck, out of breath.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much."

_John felt Sherlock lift into him hard for the last few thrusts, felt the warmth of Sherlock's ejaculate over his hand and against his stomach, felt the deliciously tight clench of wet heat clamping down around him, and that was all it took for the doctor to come completely undone, releasing himself into Sherlock with a low moan of the detective's name, a shudder tearing down his spine._

_"God, Sherlock, I love you, too, Christ." He kissed the beautiful man beneath him, murmuring against his lips over and over just how much he loved him, how perfect John thought he was._

Sherlock kissed back, relishing the taste of his own name from the doctor's lips. He wriggled back and slipped under the duvet, invited John to do the same, and wrapped his arms around him. He didn't care how messy he was, Sherlock just wanted to keep John close and doze away as the sun set. He put John's head against his chest, fingers dancing over his warm skin, tracing the scar on his shoulder, and raking through his hair. He hummed in satisfaction, feeling like the luckiest freak to ever exist.

_John watched Sherlock fold his body under the covers, and he followed, curling into the warm embrace, nestling his head so his ear rested over Sherlock's heart. He listened to the gentle, steady, slowing beat, and pretended for a moment that it was possible for a heart to whisper a name with every throb. He could feel himself becoming drowsy under Sherlock's gentle touches, and he lifted his eyes to stare at his lover, his partner, his /Sherlock/. "I love you," he murmured, voice already thick with sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was mostly sex, and I'm not sure whether I need to apologise for that or tell you you're welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another five years down the line of the strangest soulmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is mostly sex and fluff again but take it while you can I promise you I wasn't lying about angst.

The next five years seemed to Sherlock to pass by blissfully slowly, now that John knew what was to come Sherlock spent less time worrying and more time making love to John while he could. His body appeared and felt around 25, he was becoming more flexible and energetic, had never looked better. But he hated it. He wanted to be the same age as John. Wanted to age gracefully as John had. Wanted to grow old with John.

He bounded up the stairs to 221B after solving a particularly gruesome case and burst in to John in the kitchen, kissing him on his forehead.

"Cup of tea, please, darling?"

_John's day had been awful. He had done nothing but sit about all day, while the younger surgeons were worked to the bone. He had been working at the hospital since he had gotten back to London, and now they were afraid his hand would suddenly develop a tremor? He scowled at his newspaper._

_The scowl didn't dissolve when Sherlock leapt into the room, pressed a wet, sticky kiss to his forehead (creased with frown lines and the beginnings of wrinkles). "Make it yourself," he grumbled, snapping his paper straight._

Sherlock gulped and looked away from the mirror, stopped trying to wipe the blood from his neck to concentrate on John.

"...Okay." He stepped awkwardly into the kitchen to fill the kettle, getting out two cups, before leaning against the counter and frowned worriedly at the back of John's head, scared it was his fault John was in a bad mood. "I'm sorry. If I've done anything."

_John head the tone of Sherlock's voice, and he sighed, shaking his head and putting down his paper. He turned to look at his partner, frowning and eyes widening at the sight of blood, bright scarlet against porcelain. "Is that yours?" he asked, standing up and moving towards the detective. He seized Sherlock's jaw, tilting his face up so he could inspect his neck. "I'm not mad at you," he murmured, making sure Sherlock knew that. "You haven't done anything. Promise. Just agitated with things at work."_

Sherlock winced. His cut was only small, but it hurt a lot. His eyes flicked down to look at John. He looked exhausted and, Sherlock thought, quite sad. He felt quite guilty for not noticing it straight away, for being too caught up in himself, as usual.

Although John was only in his early forties, Sherlock knew he felt a lot older after having to run around London after Sherlock, feeling more worn-out each time, whilst Sherlock felt more energetic each time. Sherlock still thought him the most beautiful man in the world though, and if anything he had gotten more so in the past five years.

"Do you... do you want to talk about it?"

_John wet a paper towel and carefully wiped all of the blood away from the taller man's neck. "How did you do this?" he asked softly, concerned. "I'm going to have a word with that detective inspector if he can't return you to me unharmed." His eyes swept over the cut, and he reached for the first aid kit, pulling out an antibiotic wipe, and carefully cleaning the wound, before gently pressing a bandage over it. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the fabric of the band-aid. "There you go, love. All better."_

_He sighed, shaking his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I think they're going to take me off of the surgery floor, because I'm older than the other surgeons." He shrugged, looking up at Sherlock, giving him a soft smile._

"It was just a scuffle." he waved the comment off, grabbing John by the shoulders and frowning. "And that is ridiculous. You are 43. You are the best surgeon in the whole place. I'll get Mycroft on them. Smile, darling, please, you look ever so despondent."

He wrapped his arms around John as the kettle came to a boil, and he nudged John towards the sitting room while he poured them both tea, just how John had taught him. Sherlock took both the cups over and sat on the empty side of the sofa, lifting John's feet up to rest them on his own legs, fiddling with the fabric on the hem of the trousers and giving John's ankles the occasional squeeze to remind him that he was there, and he loved him

_John grinned and laughed, shaking his head as Sherlock took him by the shoulders. "God, sweetheart, you always know how to make it all better." His arms circled the slender waist, nose nuzzling against smooth porcelain skin, before the kettle whistled and he was nudged off towards the other room._

_John stretched out on the sofa, laying against the arm to be sure he was upright. When Sherlock appeared with tea, he lit up, reaching for the mug and sipping carefully. He let out a soft hum of approval. "Oh, love, you're so wonderful." He crossed his ankles in Sherlock's lap, smiling at the male who fidgeted with his trousers. "You look especially radiant today. You have that after-case glow." He chuckled._

Sherlock grinned and began to explain the entire case to John, how he had figured out the culprit was the man who had reported the crime by the shoe scuffs on the floor beside the body, how he had had to chase him around the Thames and had fought the villain with an old piece of piping he found on the banks. Sherlock sighed and looked over to John with a grin begging for praise, being met with a sleepy smile in return. "I wish you could have been there, John. You wouldn't have been able to resist me. You would have had to take me to an alley before we got home. How's the tea?"

_John listened to the explanation of the case, humming appreciatively, sipping his tea. It always both fascinated and aroused him how Sherlock could solve an entire case in one-sixteenth of the time a normal human being would be able to. "You're absolutely brilliant, love. Absolutely." He laughed, shaking his head as Sherlock insisted John would have had to sexually violate him before they had the chance to stumble back into their flat. "I probably would have pushed you right down on the damn river bank," he agreed. "I have half a mind to do so now, just push you onto your back right here on the sofa." He sipped his tea, eyes peering over the rim at his lover._

"Oh, really? Not so tired after all then." he raised his eyebrows and the side of his mouth curled up in a not-very-innocent way. He chuckled and extended and arm to give John's hand a squeeze. He was glad John felt a little better now, he loved him so much, it was horrible when he felt old or unworthy, because he was neither. Not to anyone that mattered.

_John rolled his eyes at the devious smile. God, he really was getting too old for this. His fingers returned the pressure of Sherlock's, sighing happily. He sat up, pulling his legs from the man's lap and leaning against Sherlock's side. "Know what I was thinking today? Since you were born in the body of a seventy-year-old man, and I met you when you looked about thirty-five, and I was thirty-three, that makes me younger than you." He chuckled, shrugging his shoulders._

"Hm, yes, but it /has/ taken you ten years to figure that out. Maybe you've always been senile." he chuckled. His gaze turned from mischevious to fond as his eyes warmed and his smile sweetened. "I love you."

_John laughed, rolling his eyes. "No, I just never try to think with you around. I feel like I lower the IQ of the whole block, or something, Mister Genius." His thumb ran over the smooth skin of Sherlock's skin, sighing. "Love you even more, beautiful."_

Sherlok moved John's legs so that he could get up, taking a step to the other side of the sofa to give John a kiss, lifting John's chin up to bring their lips together gently. He took their empty mugs to the kitchen quickly, before returning and sitting on the floor by John's head, resting his on the other man's shoulder.

_John looked up as Sherlock came back and knelt beside the sofa. "Could I have a proper kiss, Sherlock? Please? I had such a bad day." His fingers gently combed through the soft, springy dark curls._

In one swift move, Sherlock swivelled up and straddled John's hips, his hands on his shoulders.

"Of course, darling."

He bent down and kissed John. Deeply. Big breaths and sweeping lips, he poured a weeks worth of passion into it, soon flicking his tongue against John's and moving his hands to hold his face. He slowed, bringing the kisses down, ended it with one slow, passionate kiss, and in his darkest, silkiest voice, murmured, "I hope that counts as 'proper', Doctor Watson."

_John was almost surprised at the quick, fluid, seemingly effortless motion of Sherlock's young body. He rested his hands against the man's hips, receiving his kiss and returning it, kissing Sherlock like he had been deprived of the man's kisses for an entire week. God, nothing would ever beat moments like these._

_"Yes, Mister Holmes, I would have to say that was a right proper kiss." He pulled Sherlock down again to deliver a few soft kisses to the full lips, sighing. "I love you so much," he whispered, fingers gently moving up over the firm muscles under the soft fabric of Sherlock's shirt._

"I love you too, John. You are absolutely my life, you idiot."

Sherlock pushed his knees down to straighten his legs and tangle them with John's, before resting their torsos and putting his head beside John's, kissing his cheek lazily.

_John hummed, holding Sherlock's body close to his own as the man spread out on top of him, nuzzling against his cheek. This was nice, this was perfect. He sighed softly, turning his face, pressing one gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips before turning his face back up towards the ceiling._

"Oh," he murmured, "when you want to get it, there's a bag for us in the fridge. I put it there last night. Wanted to open it then, but.. case." His lips moved against John's cheek as he spoke, brushing accidental kisses against the skin.

_His eyes fell closed and he let his hands wander over the expanses of Sherlock's back, scratching and rubbing and smoothing over the fabric. "A bag?" he murmured. "Well, what's in it?"_

Sherlock hummed at the feeling of fingers tracing his spine and the warmth of John all up his body.

"When the suspense gets too much, you can open it and find out."

He pressed tiny kiss after tiny kiss onto John's cheek, nuzzling him as he did so. His finger brushed back and forth up the exposed strip of skin between John's shirt and his trousers before he just wrapped his whole arm over John's shoulders, holding him closer and tighter.

_John sighed, rolling his eyes. "Or, you could just tell me now, and I won't be tempted to toss you onto the floor." He chuckled, shivers running up his spine at the feel of fingers on his exposed skin. He turned his head, kissing Sherlock full on the lips, a repeat of the kiss that the detective had given him when he had whined for one. His arms squeezed tightly onto the slender body, and he sighed._   
  
_"Go and get the bag for me, would you? I don't feel like hauling these old bones up off of the sofa." He smirked, playfully nudging the young body off of him._

Sherlock rolled off the sofa, the kiss still in his mouth. He glanced back at John and stuck his tongue out, stumbling into the coffee table. He tried to compose himself without laughing as he opened the fridge and pulled out a large bag to take back to John, sitting down on the floor beside his head again.

_John laughed, full and loud, when Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him. For being so old, they sure did act like a couple of teenagers sometimes. He waited patiently for Sherlock to come back, humming softly to himself, folding his hands over his stomach and closing his eyes. They opened immediately when he heard the crinkle of paper beside him, felt the kiss against his shoulder. He smiled brightly, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He watched the items coming out of the bag, his heart hammering away in his chest, and all of a sudden, he was thirty-three again, sitting under the stars with the most beautiful man on the planet._

Sherlock smiled and kissed John's shoulder before opening the bag, pulling out a six pack of beer, a bottle of wine, and two chocolate and caramel muffins. He licked his lips and his eyes sparkled as they met John's.

"I know it's not you birthday but.. Ten years. Happy ten years, John."

_"Sherlock," he breathed. "Sherlock, you're so amazing. I...I love you so much." He reached for the man's shoulders, pulling him closer, kissing him again. This was better than perfect, this was heaven. He had died and gone to heaven, and he had spent ten years there so far. "Ten whole years together, and it feels like it's only been two. God, you're so perfect."_

"I love you too, more than anything." Sherlock said, rolling over to the cd player and putting in one of John's old Smiths albums. He crawled back as John opened his first beer and reached for his wine, prising the cork out and taking a drink just as if they were in the park again, stewing in the brilliant tension of a first not-date. John smiled down at him, and the whole room lit up to Sherlock. His life was as close to perfect as it was ever going to get, and he raised a silent toast to it as he brought the bottle to his lips again.

_John cracked open his first bottle, taking a healthy drink from it. A long, content sigh left him. "You're so perfect," he whispered. "I don't know what my life would be like without you in it." His fingers reached for Sherlock's, his right hand twined into Sherlock's left. "I think I might take tomorrow off, take a long weekend. You don't have your case anymore, means that you and I can have a few days to spend with each other. Spend a bit of time celebrating our anniversary." He smiled at Sherlock before taking another drink from his beer._

"That sounds wonderful," Sherlock said through a huge smile, the type that only John could extract from him. He closed his eyes and let himself drink in the evening; the music, the wine, and John's happiness.

_John loved the sight of the smile on Sherlock's face. God, it was perfect. His smile lit up the entire world for John, like Sherlock was his sun, and the doctor was just a planet, orbiting his brilliance. "Wonderful," he reapeated in a whisper, leaning against Sherlock's side, drinking his beer._

Sherlock stayed like that for a minute or so before his eyes burst open and he stood up abruptly, holding his hand out to John.

"Dance with me."

_John gasped as Sherlock whipped up off of the couch, faster than John had seen him move all day. "Dance?" He laughed. "Sherlock, I don't dance." But he still found himself setting down his beer and taking Sherlock's hand, lifting himself up wrapping his arms around the slender waist._

Sherlock pressed John's head against his shoulder.

"Just follow my lead."

He took John's hand and put his other on his shoulder, moving his feet slowly so John could get used to the pattern. Sherlock smiled as they slowly moved around the room, swerving the furniture and flowing as a unit. It was intimate and wonderful. Sherlock could feel John trying to concentrate and get it all right, but after a few minutes he also felt him smiling and the movements began to come naturally to him.

"Are you sure you don't dance? You're very good," he purred, his voice quiet and dark.

_"I really don't. God, I haven't danced since my high school prom!" he laughed, shaking his head. And it was true. "Even that was a disaster. This is...with you, it's so much different."_

They swayed and turned together, as poetic as two men slow dancing to the Smiths in a messy flat could be, and felt more in love than either of them ever thought possible

_John laid his head on against Sherlock's shoulder, nodding slowly, watching the way Sherlock's feet moved gracefully through the steps, and he tried to mirror them, to try and be as graceful as Sherlock was, but there was no way that could ever happen. He had never danced around his flat before - never had anyone to dance with - and he had to admit that this was amazing. He found himself smiling, moving his hand to hold more firmly to the small of Sherlock's back, hand gripping onto his partner's._ _  
_

As the song finished, Sherlock stooped to kiss John's closed eyes and stroke his face.

"That was beautiful, well done John."

_John sighed, leaning into the gentle touch of slender fingers over his face. "Thank you, Sherlock," he murmured, and it scorched through him just how weighted those words were. For the dance, for the last ten years, for the chance to have someone to love him no matter what. He had never had anyone like Sherlock in his life before, and he knew that he wanted it no other way. He couldn't see his life playing out like this with anyone but the consulting detective who was pulling him to sit back down on the sofa._

Sherlock led John back to the sofa, handing him his beer and one of the muffins, taking an entirely ungraceful bite out of his own.

_John took the muffin, taking a bite out of it and washing it down with the last few mouthfuls of beer in his bottle. He opened a second one, relaxing against the sofa, looking up at Sherlock. "You're the best thing to ever happen to me," he murmured._

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I'm the worst, disguised as the best."

He took a long swig of his wine before taking John's hand and pressing a kiss against the knuckles and holding it against his cheek, looking into John's dark eyes all the time.

Sherlock turned and rested his head on the few inches of exposed sofa by John's chest, pressing his curls against the rise and fall of it.

_John sighed, shaking his head as well. "No, you're the best by far. Without you, I'd just be a lonely, bitter old man." He laughed. "Now I'm just bitter and old."_

_A blush crept up from the collar of his shirt as Sherlock took his hand and kissed it. God, this was romantic, as romantic as wine and beer and muffins in their flat could be. His arm rested around the detective's shoulders as the curly mess of dark hair pressed closer. He traced slow circles against Sherlock's shoulder blade, sighing contently. "I love you._

Sherlock hummed in return, bringing his bottle to his lips. The alcohol had started to swirl through his system, tainting his cheeks and ears tipsily red and making his chest warm. The tiny shapes drawn on him by John's fingers brought about a relaxed smile, and Sherlock nuzzled against his hand. He brought the wine to his lips again, flicking his tongue absentmindedly against the lip of the bottle. He took a long, elegant swig and pressed his wine-sweetened lips to his own fingers before reaching up and tapping them against John's lips.

_John sighed, feeling Sherlock moving against his hand, arching into the touch. He loved these sorts of moments, cuddling moments together on the couch. It was nice, beyond nice. He watched the bottle lift and fall, and he lifted his own bottle, and drained his second beer. It startled him when Sherlock pressed his fingers against his lips, and he looked down at the man curled against his chest. Slowly, he took Sherlock's bottle, setting it on the table and tilting the angelic face up towards his own._

_John stared into the bright, shining aquamarine eyes for a moment, noting the haze that the alcohol left in its wake, and he smiled, licking his lips, tasting the wine on his lips. He leaned closer, pressing his lips to Sherlock's, letting his tongue flick over the smooth, full skin, tasting the wine more strongly there._

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and his eyes flickered closed as John's warm tongue flicked against his lips. He caught it with his teeth, biting gently as he pulled John towards him, artfully releasing his grip on the tongue and turning his head to press a passionate kiss against his whole mouth.

Once his body had time to react, his hands were a flurry to unbutton John's shirt, brushing and pressing the warm skin underneath, just to get more, to feel more. John was all-encompassing to Sherlock, and it had always baffled him how he had been lonely before. He knew people were stupid, but surely they should have seen how perfect John was? It made no sense to Sherlock. But he was grateful. If it weren't for the stupidity of others, John wouldn't be here with him now, kissing him and touching him and wanting him forever.

_John let out a soft breath against Sherlock's lips as the man caught his tongue, moving his body closer to him, sighing and gripping the fabric of the detective's shirt, moving closer to him, pressing his body close. He arched away for a moment as Sherlock scrabbled his buttons open, before pressing his chest back against Sherlock. His own fingers made slow work of Sherlock's buttons, pushing the soft material away from the smooth white skin._   
  
_His lips trailed slowly down over Sherlock's throat as he pressed the man backwards, laying him down on his back on the sofa. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's collarbone, before sucking a purple bruise there against the flawless skin. He still was trying to wrap his brain around the idea that Sherlock was all his, that he had been granted someone so perfect for him, so absolutely wonderful. He had never done anything great with his life, but he had been rewarded, and part of him was always nervous that Sherlock would be ripped away. That was why he tried his hardest to make the most of what they had, while they still had it_

Sherlock rolled his hips up against John, his eyes glinting. He made quick work of taking the rest of John's shirt off and shrugged out of his own as he sucked on the base of John's neck, biting on his most sensitive areas. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing, murmuring John's name against his skin and feeling the other man shiver, smiling as goosebumps popped up where he nibbled and sucked.

_John's breath hitched as Sherlock's narrow hips lifted up into his, and he closed his eyes for just a second, carefully rolling his own hips back against him and letting out a soft sigh against his skin. The bites and lips against his neck drew out more sounds from him, and a shiver flashed down his spine._

He rolled his hips up again, this time forcing his trousers to drop slightly below the band of his underwear and running his tongue along John's bottom lip. His arms wrapped around John's warm back as he pulled them closer together, his kisses peppering every part of John's face.

_The second time Sherlock's hips lifted into his, he caught them with his strong hands, holding them against his own, pressing forwards, pressing their bodies together tightly as Sherlock's sweet breath swept over his entire face. His lips caught those of the detective again as his finger tips dipped under the waist of Sherlock's trousers, tugging them away from the detective's hip._

Sherlock giggled. He always knew John's libido would never ebb as long as Sherlock was still legal. His nails dug right into John's back as hands caught at his own hips, and his hands dragged trails up his spine. He gasped into John's mouth and shimmied slightly to help John derobe him. As he managed to gain some control of his limbs, he reached down below the sofa and pulled out a small bottle of lube and a condom.

_John felt a breathless laugh leave his own chest as well as Sherlock pressed his body close. The laugh turned into a soft groan at the feeling of fingernails pressing into his back. His hands gripped at the soft, supple, young flesh of Sherlock's legs, leaning back to pull away the expensive material of the trousers. He blinked at the sight of a condom and a tube of lube, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere. His eyes turned to Sherlock's, and his eyebrow twitched upwards._

"Well I put them there because I thought this might happen when I gave you the bag. Never hurts to think ahead."

_"Oh, well, aren't you just so sure of yourself," he mumbled, laying himself back over the man's body, kissing up his neck and nipping at his jaw. "I love you so much," he whispered, undoing his own trousers, kicking them carefully down his legs, leaving them both in just their pants_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mock-formality, "Naturally," he said, his eyes warming afterwards. "I love you too," he said, using his free hand to pull John's head down and kiss him feverently. They hadn't even had altogether that much to drink but they were as clumsily horny as two hammered teenagers, and it was wonderful. Tipsy John was almost more brilliant than sober John. He slipped the condom and the small bottle into John's hand, biting his lip teasingly.

He began to remove John's pants as John had removed his, pushing his hands under the material and loosening them to bring them down, hands gripping at warm, perky flesh. His hips rolled up again, brushing his already tight underwear against John, whispering into John's mouth.

_John took the condom, and sat that on the arm of the couch. The lube, he kept in his hand as he pulled down Sherlock's pants, pushing them off the flawless long legs and onto the floor with the rest of their clothes. He popped open the lube and slowly and carefully started coating his fingers. He leaned down, lips gently tracing along the detective's collarbone. "God, you're so damn beautiful."_

_His finger slowly circled the taut pucker of Sherlock's entrance, before pressing his index finger in slowly, carefully._

Sherlock licked along the ear so close to his mouth and gasped animatedly into it as he felt John inside of him.

"Compared to you, John, I'm nothing. And without you I'm even less." he whispered, serious for a moment as he moved his head to look into John's eyes, before damn near attacking his lips with his own, teasing them open with a stern tongue while pushing himself down onto John's finger and holding him closer. He grunted against John's lips, urging and insistent.

_A shiver shot down John's spine at the sound of the gasp. He felt the muscles stretch and flex around him, and he slowly pressed in and out, preparing Sherlock, trying not to rush, not to hurt the man beneath him._   
  
_"Without you, I'm nothing, Sherlock," the doctor whispered, staring into the bright aquamarine eyes, "but together, we're everything. You complete me." He received the kiss, eagerly meeting Sherlock's tongue with his own, kissing him back, responding to the grunt by pushing a second finger slowly into his lover, scissoring them apart, stretching him slowly. To ease the burn and any other pain caused by the stretch, John quickly found Sherlock's prostate, stroking over it as he pushed his fingers in and out._

Sherlock didn't know whether sex was always this good for everyone, or whether he was blessed, but as John touched him he was ecstatic with the fire running through him. He lifted John's hips so he was able to move, and flipped himself over so he was facing down.

"I can't wait any longer John, I want you. Christ, John, fuck me like you believe me when I say I won't break." he hissed through gritted teeth, spreading his legs as he lifted himself onto all fours.

_John watched, eyes wide as Sherlock turned himself over, bent onto all fours, perfect arse presented to him. The doctor licked his lips, letting out a low, growling moan at the words from Sherlock's lips, the plea. God, he was really getting too old for this._

_He gripped Sherlock's shoulder with one hand, squeezing tightly, his other hand guiding himself into Sherlock. He pressed his hips forward slowly, while using his grip on the other's shoulder to pull him back. His other hand rested against Sherlock's hip, and he tilted the angle, giving a few slow, experimental thrusts. After he was satisfied with the angle, with the fact that Sherlock had stretched sufficiently around him, he pulled out and slammed back in, only moving his own hips minutely, mainly using his hands to manipulate Sherlock's movment, driving the young body against himself hard and fast. John's jaw fell slack, and he stared down at Sherlock, watching the muscles flex beneath him, and the only thing running through his mind, over and over again, was 'mine, mine, mine...'_

Sherlock loved this side of John, the posessive, powerful animal that was only released for Sherlock. He pounded himself back against John, his jaw clenched and fingers digging into the sofa as he threw his head back. Screams erupted from him, he didn't care if the whole street heard - he /wanted/ them to hear. Wanted them to hear what John could do to him and to hear what they were missing out on. He screamed John's name and clenched his jaw tighter the harder he was thrust back, time and time again.

_The screams, oh, God the screams. They sent shivers of delight crackling through John like electric current. He was producing these noises, he was making Sherlock scream like this, and he had never been so proud of something before in his life. His hand knotted into Sherlock's dark curls, and he tugged, making sure his head stayed back like it was then, making sure he could see the way his lovely face contorted and clenched as he screamed for him, shouted and whimpered and grunted, all for John. His grip was still strong on the man's hip, making sure he kept up his rough rhythm._

John's ragged breathing scratched at the air behind him and Sherlock had to peel a hand from the sofa to wrap around his own erection, tugging at it in time with John's thrusts. His mouth fell open and he let out whimpers and gasps in place of screams, turning gradually into grunts and getting louder each time.

"John, I'm ready, I'm close, oh god."

  
_He watched the hand lift from the leather, watched it disappear beneath the lithe body, watched the forearm working, pumping desperately. His own grunts fell in tandem with Sherlock's and he could feel the way the man was tightening around him. He knew he couldn't last much longer. He just needed that sweet clench, the heavenly sound of Sherlock's orgasm first._   
  
_"Come for me, Sherlock," he panted. "Please, I need to feel you first."_

Sherlock could feel John's eyes all over him and he burnt red with pleasure. He concentrated on everything: the feel of John's fingers knotted in his curls, the way his other hand was still squeezed against his hip, the way he was caressing himself, throwing in little twists on the up-tugs, and of course the powerfully energetic sex itself. So many sensations. Sherlock groaned as pleasure pooled in him and welled up, his breaths caught eachother and his eyes flitted up. He shouted John's name in a choke as the pleasure burst out of him and he rode himself out, caressed every wave of his orgasm out of himself, repeating John's name and filling his lungs with the smell of sex and love, mixed with wine, beer, chocolate and warmth

_John heard the way Sherlock's voice cracked as he shouted his name, and he felt the way his body tensed arond him. John's eyes fell closed, and he gritted his teeth, rocking slowly into the slick, spasming heat as he rode out his own orgasm, emptying himself into the man below him. He stuttered over the two syllables of his lover's name, hand slowly caressing up from Sherlock's hip over his side, down his chest and into the sticky mess on his abdomen. "Christ," he hissed, as he slowly pulled back and out, hand detangling from the sweaty, curly mess of hair. His arm wrapped around the smooth skin of Sherlock's chest, pulling the detective back to rest in his lap as he sat on his calves._   
  
_John placed soft, gentle kisses into the skin between Sherlock's shoulderblades, trying his hardest to regain the evenness of his breath._

Sherlock panted and rested into John, wrapping the other's arms around him and ignoring the sticky mess covering the both of them. He sighed into the warm shoulder, kissing it lazily as post-orgasm sleepiness washed over him.

"I love you," he mumbled into the soft, cottony skin. And he did. In that moment, all he wanted was to pull John's arms tighter around himself and nuzzle into him, listening to John talk about his day. He wanted to crawl under John's skin and sleep there, listen to his thoughts and sit inside of his heart, turning the cogs and tasting the nectar that must run through his veins. He wanted to freeze the moment, to close his eyes and die right there next to John. He thought that idea had probably come from the Smiths being played in the background earlier, but that didn't make it seem any less of a wonderful idea. 'To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.' He remembered that line and ached for it. From here on out, it was only going to get more difficult for the both of them. This was as close to perfect as it would ever be again. The things Sherlock would do to end it all there and then with John. He brought one of John's hands to his mouth and kissed each course finger gently.

_John held onto Sherlock, holding him tight against his body. His right hand rested over the detective's heart, and his left hand gently stroked up and down his right thigh, kissing over his shoulders. "I love you, too," he whispered. "I love you so much." Ten years hadn't been enough, and now they only had about seven left to be this way. The gravity of it all was hitting the doctor hard, right in the gut, right in the heart. Not enough time. He felt a stinging behind his eyes, and he sighed against Sherlock's skin, squeezing his eyes shut, squeezing onto the young body on top of him._   
  
_"Marry me," he choked out. "I mean...we don't have to have a ceremony, but I want..." He cleared his throat, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to put everything together so that it didn't cut his tongue like razors on the way out. "I want you to have my last name. It might be easier that way, when you get y-younger. An-And I love you, more than I'll ever love anyone." He swallowed, hand over Sherlock's heart gripping tighter. "Marry me, Sherlock."_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Marry me, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff for now but trust me trust me just wait for it

Sherlock sat up, still naked, covered in sweat and rapidly drying semen, with his hair sticking up everywhere. His eyes widened as he turned to look at John. This was what he had been waiting to hear for all these years, and John had to ask while he looked like this. Sherlock shook his head.

"Ask me again when I look better and when you know what you're saying. I give you ten minutes."

He stood and stalked down the hall to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and allowed himself a moment of losing control, smiling like an idiot and hugging himself against the door, trying not to squeal from joy. When he stepped into the shower, he scrubbed meticulously but quickly before dashing to his room and putting on fresh clothes despite the late hour. He toweled his hair dry and tried to compose himself as he strolled back into the living room to an only half-dressed better half, sitting in his chair and steepling his fingers beneath his nose while he waited for John to collect himself too.

_John felt his heart sink as Sherlock shook his head, and he immediately felt stupid for even asking. He had just opened his mouth to apologise, to say something, to take it back if it made the detective uncomfortable. Relief washed through him, though, when Sherlock said he could ask again in ten minutes. He watched the lithe body unfold from his lap, walk off out of sight towards the bathroom._

_As soon as he was out of sight, John was grinning like an idiot. "Engaged," he breathed. He laughed softly, shaking his head and raking his hands through his short, grey-blonde hair. He went to the kitchen, wetting a paper towel and cleaning himself off. After he binned it, he went back into the sitting room, picking up his pants and his trousers, pulling them on carefully. He moved and sat down in his armchair, trying to come up with exactly what he was going to say. He looked up as Sherlock came in, sitting down on his chair, sitting exactly how he did every night._

_Slowly, John moved down onto his knees, reaching for Sherlock's left hand, holding it in both of his own. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, smiling up at him. "Sherlock," he said softly. "Ten years ago tonight, you asked me if I believed in love at second sight. And I know that you knew exactly what I was feeling then - how couldn't you, with that brilliant mind of yours? You probably knew how much I loved you, better than I did." He chuckled. "Spending this time with you, it's been amazing. Indescribable, really. Chasing you all over London, cleaning up all of your experiments, dealing with days upon days of silence... It was all worth it, because I knew the whole time that you loved me, and that I loved you, and that was all that mattered to me, really." He cleared his throat, inhaled deeply through his nostrils. "I'm not really sure why it's taken me this long to realise that I want you to be my husband, but I've finally arrived at that, and now that I've thought it, I don't want to spend another moment /not/ married to you. So, Mister Sherlock Holmes," he said, voice stronger now as he gently squeezed the detective's hand, "would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"_

For the first time in his extraordinary life, Sherlock Holmes was completely and utterly speechless. John's proposal was the most heartfelt, the most romantic and the most perfect thing he had ever done. Sherlock's eyes had started watering as soon as John had said his name, and by the end, in front of his serious, stony face, were sparkling eyes and tracks of tears pouring down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He gulped, opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, trying to find something halfway intelligible to say. He wasn't used to not being able to come up with a response, though he felt in this instance he didn't particularly mind.

He nodded. Fiercely. Almost painfully. If this was the only affirmative he could give he wanted to make sure John knew he was serious. He pursed his lips and nodded. His arms found John's shoulders, and he pulled him up for an embrace. They stayed like that for ages, breathing eachother in and letting the whole situation sink in. Sherlock started laughing, pulling back and staring into John's deep blue eyes.

_John watched Sherlock dissolved before him as he proposed, and his heart sang against his ribs. He had rendered the detective completely speechless, something he was sure the man had never experienced once in his entire life. For some strange reason, the doctor felt an odd sense of accomplishment. He beamed up at Sherlock as the man nodded vigorously, rapidly, almost as if he was a child's bobble head toy. John couldn't help the joyful laugh that escaped his lips, and he rose onto his knees to snake his arms around Sherlock's waist, squeezing the slim body against his as if he was never going to let him go again._

"Ten years ago I believed in love at second sight. I never thought I'd fall in love at every sight." He touched John's face and kissed the tip of his nose.

_"You're so soppy," John teased, wrinkling his nose playfully as Sherlock kissed the tip of it. One hand came up to gently card through dark, damp curls, and he sighed happily. "We need to start making plans to be married soon. It'll already look like I'm a cradle-robber, if we wait much longer it might reach Hugh Heffner status." He laughed, resting his forehead against Sherlock's, sighing. He was so content with his life right now. It could never be more perfect than this._

Sherlock nodded. "We'll have to have a witness. I'll call Mycroft. No doubt he can sort something out aswell, something secret. He owes me anyway. So... Later... Are we going to have to pretend I'm your..." He closed his eyes. "Your nephew, or something?"

_John sighed happily, nodding slowly. "I'll call Harry. She'll want to be there." His hand slowly rubbed up and down Sherlock's spine. He could sense the tension and the impending cloud of sadness threatening to ruin the perfect golden moment. "Yes, something like that," he said, sighing against the man's shoulder. "We'll figure it out when the time comes, alright? It'll all work out, love."_

"Alright, okay." His head lolled against John's. He took John's hand and pulled them both up. He went around the room, flicking switches off and squeezing John's hand, until they were in almost complete darkness. Sherlock tugged on John's hand, leading him to their bedroom where he flicked on a lamp and stripped to his blue silk boxers. "I love you," he said, wrapping his arms around John and kissing him, focussing all his attention on him. Then he was walking to his side of the bed and getting in. "Bed time. Joining me?"

_John stood up slowly, following behind Sherlock as the man tugged him along to their bedroom. He sighed, so content. He had never felt this convincing before in his entire life. He pushed the door to their bedroom shut tight behind him, watching as Sherlock slowly removed the clothing that he had just put on after he had cleaned himself up. His arms circled the slim waist, and he kissed Sherlock back, sighing softly against the soft, full lips. He let go of the man when he pulled away, and grinned at him when he asked if he was coming along to bed. "Of course," he whispered. He slowly kicked out of his trousers, and pulled back the covers on his side, slipping in and pulling Sherlock's body close to his, burying his face in damp, sweet-smelling curls._

_"I love you, Sherlock," he whispered._

"I love you too. Always."

*  *  *

Two weeks later, Sherlock found himself donning an expensive suit and climbing into a car with Mycroft. They didn't want a huge wedding, they wanted secrecy, but Mycroft had been adamant about adding flamboyance wherever he could, making sure the grooms weren't to see eachother before the small ceremony, ordering an outstandingly posh cake for the pair and the small amount of people who were aware of the situation, and insisting on buying them both tailor made suits.

_John was an absolute mess. "You've got the rings?" he asked his sister for the thousandth time._   


_"John! Of course I've got them." Harry pulled the rings from inside her suit coat, showing him the small black velvet box. He nodded slowly, pacing the small expanse at the front of the small room where the pair were to be married. Married! He was getting married today. He sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face, then fidgeting with his tie._

_"Johnny, I don't want to startle you. But they've arrived."_   


_John's heart was sent hammering against his ribs, and he turned his eyes towards the door, licking his lips. "This is it, Harry," he whispered._

Sherlock's mouth went dry as he entered the room. Mycroft was already in there, along with Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade, the only people who knew about the situation. But Sherlock only saw John. His heart skipped several beats in a row and he thought that he might faint. He fingered the piece of paper in his pocket before John caught his eye, and Sherlock broke out the biggest smile that he thought anyone had ever done. He took a breath and walked slowly down the room to stand next to John in the elaborately decorated room.

_John looked towards the door when he heard it click open, and he could have sworn that his heart stopped. He licked his lips, swallowing past the lump that had already started to form in his throat. He felt like such a woman, crying just at the sight of his husband-to-be, but Sherlock looked immaculate. Completely perfect, standing there, framed by the doorway, staring at nothing but John himself. It struck him, hard and sudden, that Sherlock was going to be his now, forever. That after this short ceremony, they were going to be bound together for the rest of their lives. He sighed softly, shaking his head just slightly as Sherlock came to meet him at the front of the room, and immediately, John reached out and took the detective's hands in his own, giving them one tight, reassuring squeeze_ .

The  traditional acceptance vows were exchanged, but Sherlock brought out the scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and cleared his throat.

"John Hamish Watson. Usually I could have memorised a speech such as this, but I thought I would write it down just in case the sight of you today made me speechless for the second time in my life. Thank God for forethought. John, you inspire in me so much, and you make me a better person. Now I don't know if destiny exists, or fate, but we both knew on that rainy afternoon ten years ago that us meeting was no coincidence. And it wasn't. I know that has to be true because there is not a single person on this entire planet who I could love anywhere near as much as I love you, if at all, and no one else would accept and understand me either. There is no one else who seems so made for me, no one else who completes me.  I rewrote this ten times. Each time I did it, I had to start again because no matter how much I tried, the words were always lacking and not enough, because I genuinely can't accurately convey what you mean to me. It's too much. You are a perfect you, and we are a perfect we. You always say how you don't deserve me, when it's actually the other way around. That is one of the great things about you, John. You don't have to do anything to deserve love. Just you being you is enough to deserve an eternity of happiness and love, you will always deserve it and no one will ever deserve you. 

I love you with overwhelming force. I'm pointless without you. But I know what love is now. For me, anyway. I know what it is. It isn't a feeling, or a sensation in your stomach. It's you. Love is you. And I will forever marvel at the fact that you chose me to spend a lifetime with. I love you, John."

He looked up from the paper and folded it back into his pocket, chewing his lip and trying to will away the blush that had spread across his face and the tears that had cracked his voice.

_John felt his brow furrow, and his hand dropped back down to his side, listening to Sherlock's speech, smile twitching at his lips. By the time that he was done, the doctor was nearly a wreck. His heart was hammering against his chest, his grin couldn't have been any wider, and his eyes were welling up with tears of joy and love. "I...God, Sherlock, I love you, too," he breathed._

_He seized the velvet box from his sister, lifting the ring that had been sized to Sherlock's long, slender ring finger, and very slowly, he slipped the platinum band over the detective's pale skin. His deep blue eyes lifted to Sherlock's bright, shining aquamarines, and he sighed shakily as a matching band was slid onto his finger. As soon as they were pronounced as officially united, John lifted his hands, pulling Sherlock's face down to meet his own, pressing his lips to his husband's - Christ, his /husband's/ - in the most passionate kiss that they had shared in all of their ten years together._

_There were cheers and there was applause, but John didn't hear any of it. From the moment Sherlock had walked into the room, had walked into his flat, had walked into him on the street, it had always just been the two of them, and no one else had ever mattered._

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, smiling as he watched everyone in the room: Mrs Hudson trying to chat with Mycroft, Lestrade and Molly, John and Harry. The small afterparty in 221B was just how he wanted it, cosy and fantastic and no one was making him talk. He felt he had done quite enough of that for one day. Sherlock smiled warmly at his husband, pink cheeked from champagne and bowtie loose around his neck, looking perfectly dissheveled and utterly delicious. He picked at the cake next to him, already having pocketed the two wooden figures Mycroft had had handmade to look exactly like them ("We didn't want any extravagance, butt out." "Dear brother, do shut up."), but didn't actually eat any for fear of throwing up; he was still nervous from all the excitement. John caught his eye for a split second and Sherlock broke out in a grin. "I love you," he mouthed.

_John sat on the floor near the sofa, laughing and talking with Molly and Lestrade and Harry. He was a bit tipsy from the champagne he had been drinking since the toast, and added to that, the pleasant company was just enough, just perfect. He had a slice of cake - mostly eaten - sitting on a plate balanced on his knee, and a beer - mostly drank - sitting on the floor near his other knee. Every so often, he would glance towards his husband, and they had even made eye contact once. "Love you more," he had mouthed back, before bursting into loud laughter at something or other that Harry was saying._

_The goodbyes had started with Mrs. Hudson saying she should get downstairs to bed, that it was getting late. John's sister followed with a crude comment about leaving the newlyweds 'to it,' and Lestrade agreed and left next, accompanied by the elder Holmes. Molly was the last to leave, bidding them both well and even giving John a tight squeeze before leaving, closing the door behind her. John sighed at the sudden silence of the flat, looking around the room before finally resting his eyes on Sherlock. "Have we got any foil? I should wrap the cake, put some away in the freezer for next year. Isn't that how people do it?" He chuckled, shrugging one shoulder, eyes falling to the floor beneath his polished black shoes._

"I'm hardly the expert on marital traditions, John," he said as he crossed the floor to his husband. His fingers hooked gently beneath John's chin and tilted it up as Sherlock's own head came down, their lips meeting in a tired, content kiss. He pulled away and moved to allow John to do his thing with the rest of the cake, picking up his violin from beside his chair. As John tidied away, he put the instrument between his shoulder and chin and, with the cheekiest of smiles, began to play the wedding march and then 'When I'm 64' quietly.

_John shrugged one shoulder, tucking his hands into the pocket of his pants. He sighed, eyes falling closed as his lips met his husband's. He watched Sherlock pick up his violin, grinning and shaking his head at the selection. "You could help me clean up, you know," he grumbled playfully, gathering up trash and dumping it all into the bin. "I love you, but you are so lazy when it comes to cleaning up." He shook his head, taking the top tier of his cake - set aside earlier by Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson - and carefully wrapping it, plate and all, in tin foil, putting it into the freezer. "No experiments in the freezer near the cake, alright? I don't want to be having a piece and die from consumption of toxic chemicals." He moved to lean against the doorway into the living room, to stare at his husband. "You looked so bloody beautiful today," he whispered, gentle, tired smile on his face._

Sherlock chose to ignore all of his husband's playful nagging, putting his violin down only when John leaned against the door.

"I looked the same as I always do, pointy and odd, but in a nice suit." He said, ambling over to John and putting his hands on his waist. "You, however, have been wearing the most delicious smile all day, and I dare say today you are even more perfect than you were yesterday." He bent and smiled into a kiss, humming with pleasure and utter content. As he pulled away, he brought a hand to John's face and gazed down fondly. "You're tired."

_John smiled, his brows inching upwards as his husband moved closet to him. "I like all of your odd lines and angles. We compliment each other very well, most would say. And I only smile because I finally have you, officially. You're all mine now, and I swear that I'm the happiest man in all of London." He received the kiss warmly, his fingers finding and caressing the smooth hollow of Sherlock's cheek, gently caressing._

_"Exhausted," he breathed into the space between their faces. He opened his eyes to look up at Sherlock, still smiling. "Do you want to come to bed with me?"_

"What a stupid question," Sherlock murmured against John's ear, sliding his fingers down to his shoulder, down his arm, to thread through those of John. He pressed his lips to John's cheek and turned off the light as John led the way to their room. Sherlock was tired too if he was honest with himself, which he had to be as a very unflattering yawn contorted his mouth while he closed the bedroom door behind him. He grinned sheepishly at John, before removing his clothes, groaning at the sense of freedom that came with taking off the stiff and barely comfortable suit. He lay the outfit out and folded the items, swearing he'd keep them forever. Crawling between the sheets, he put his head on his pillow and watched through his love-tinted goggles as John did the same, smiling gently up at him.

_John couldn't help but snicker at the way his husband's face warped behind a rather large and exaggerated yawn. He shook his head, undoing his bowtie and the buttons at the cuff of his sleeve. He took each item off slowly, making sure that each was hung up with care in their wardrobe before he carefully climbed into bed beside Sherlock, tucking the blankets around their bodies and pulling the taller, more slender detective against him. "I wish I could live this day for the rest of eternity," he murmured sleepily against Sherlock's lips, pressing slow, lazy kisses there as he drifted into a state of near-sleep._

Sherlock automatically scooted closer to John and wrapped his arms around him when he got into bed. He hummed in response, it had indeed been a beautiful day, though Sherlock could never do it again. Far too much fuss to be repeated. He kissed back, moving his lips slowly and tenderly, didn't stop until John was barely responding and was snoring gently. Sherlock loved kissing John to sleep, it was one of his favourite things to do. He nuzzled into John's neck and combed his soft hair with his fingers as he drifted blissfully slowly into sleep himself.

_John woke slowly, the best way to wake up. His fingers automatically tightened on Sherlock's body, making sure that he was still there, still very much a real thing. Slowly, gently, his fingers trailed up and down the man's spine, counting each vertebrae, naming each one under his breath as he stroked over it in slow circles. He kept his eyes closed, imagining just for a moment that they were a normal couple, both the same age - but as he expanded on that fantasy, he realised that he wouldn't have it any other way. His Sherlock wasn't...normal, not by any stretch of the word, and John loved him for each and every one of his abnormalities, even the ones that would end up being painful for him at an older age._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The de-aging becomes very clear.
> 
> (Warning for a tiny bit of underage romance. Nothing sexual or anything, but I thought I should mention it just in case.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told you

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows at John.

"I'm not eating it." he said very matter-of-factly, shaking his head. He pushed his dinner plate away with his wiry teenage arms before folding them across his chest. "You forced me to eat yesterday. I don't need anything. You have it."

Sherlock looked up at John, who was obviously tired and worn-out. Sherlock felt a little guilty for being such a pain and he hated to see John like this. So he refused to see it. He pushed away from the table and stormed to his room, the one he had used in his first two weeks living at 221B almost 20 years ago. Sherlock hadn't wanted to make a fuss of it, arguing that it would be like celebrating the fact that their marriage and sexual relationship was over, but John had adorned the walls with posters of the periodic table and put up bookshelves. Sherlock flung himself down on his bed and began his daily routine of hating himself relentlessly.

_John frowned. "Yes, you bloody will eat it," he said firmly, frowning at him. "I made it, and you will sit here until you -- Sher/lock/!" he shouted after him as he got up and left the room. He let out a frustrated growl as he heard footsteps on the stairs. He stood, slamming his chair against the table with a loud crack as he stood up and made his way after him. For a man of almost fifty-four years of age, he could move relatively well, relatively quickly._

_He jogged up the stairs, not bothering to knock on the door, just pushing it open and walking straight in. "Why do you have to be such an insufferable little twat? Don't you dare blame it on your teenage hormones, either, Sherlock, because I know you better than that." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I'm just trying to take care of you. I'm trying to help you, to make sure that you're fed and loved and have a roof over your head. So, why the /hell/ do you insist on fighting me every step of the way?!"_

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and just let the tears roll. He didn't make any noise, his face didn't change expression; the tears just rolled down the sides of his face as John shouted. He didn't want to upset John, he was just an 'insufferable little twat' because he hated himself and he hated the way he had to live his life and he hated that no matter what he would end up dying on John and hurting him, so he couldn't help but take half of it out on himself in a self-destructive cycle, and half of it on everyone around him.

He was vaguely aware of the silence when John had stopped shouting. Sherlock's eyes stayed glued to the ceiling. 'I'm sorry John', he thought. 'I love you.'

"I'm not hungry."

_The silence was long and drawn out, and had it lasted any longer, John would have softened, would have apologised for shouting in the first place. He would have crossed the room and tenderly wiped the tears from Sherlock's face, would have gathered him into his arms and held him until he hated himself a bit less. But the little shit had to make another comment, he had to be a little arse about it._

_"I don't give a damn if you were hungry or not!" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Christ, Sherlock, just because you look fifteen doesn't mean you have to act like it!"_

_With that, he left the room, slamming the door behind him and stomping down the stairs. He slung his coat over his shoulder and left the flat, slamming that door, too, patting his pocket as he walked down the stairs and out onto the street, just to be sure he had his phone, wallet, and keys._

Sherlock waited until he heard the front door slam, and then let out a huge scream. He understood that it was frustrating for John, but John couldn't possibly imagine what Sherlock was going through. He was trying so hard to slow the de-aging of his mind, but he couldn't stop it. His mind was getting younger with his body, frustrating Sherlock and pushing him to his absolute limits. Everything was de-aging, his mind, body, maturity, everything. Sherlock could still remember all of his life, but he couldn't bring any aspect of it back. He continued screaming, gripping his bed sheets and pushing tears out of his eyes.

"I LOVE YOU. I HATE MYSELF AND I LOVE YOU AND YOU HATE ME." Sherlock screamed, sobbing and breathing heavily, memories of his and John's life running through his mind. He curled up and cried, occasionally punching the wall above his head, stayed there for a good half hour before standing abruptly and storming downstairs and knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door. She was getting on in years but she was still healthy and overly worrisome. As she opened the door, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her wordlessly and held on to her, breathing in her familiar perfume to calm himself down.

_John had tried to call Sherlock almost a dozen times in the past hour, but there was no answer. He made his way back to Baker Street, unlocking the front door. He looked up the stairs towards his flat, seeing the door was flung wide open. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face, shaking his head. "Getting too damn old for this," he grumbled, gently knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door. When she opened it, he smiled at her sadly, and she immediately led him in to where Sherlock was curled up in a blanket on her sofa. The doctor sighed wearily, moving to kneel in front of him, rest his head in the boy's lap._

_"I'm sorry," he mumbled into the soft, warm wool of the blanket. "Come back upstairs with me, please, Sherlock. I didn't mean... I just... I'm sorry. I love you, so much."_

Sherlock lifted his eyelids, eyes red-raw from weeping. He sat up and wrapped his arms around John's neck, pushing his face to the side of John's.

"I don't /want/ to be like this. I try..." he whispered, terrified he would start crying again. He squeezed tighter for a moment before letting go and standing, apologising to Mrs. Hudson and returning her blanket. Sherlock sniffed, wiped his eyes, then left 221A and padded upstairs.

Once inside his own living room again, Sherlock took the plate of spaghetti bolognese on the table and put it in the microwave to warm up. Opening one of the drawers, he rummaged around until he found a pen and an old pad of post-its, taking one of the sticky notes and scribbling on it before sticking it on the fridge.

'I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows ~ Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter 1' it read

_John bid Mrs. Hudson goodnight and thanked her for looking after Sherlock before he followed him up the stairs, closing and locking their door behind them. He could smell the sweet aroma of pasta sauce getting reheated, and he walked into the kitchen, hands stuffed into his pockets. "You alright?" he asked. He saw the note on the fridge and ambled over to read it, sighing. "Loved that book," he said softly, turning to look at Sherlock, the man that he had spent almost half of his life with._

_He took the pad of post-its from him, and the pen as well, scrawling his own quote onto it. When he was done, he peeled the square of paper from the block and pressed it onto the front of Sherlock's shirt, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the young lips. He didn't do that often - Sherlock's body looked fifteen, not fifty-five, it felt wrong to do so - before pulling away and moving into the sitting room, collapsing with a soft groan into his chair._

_'Once you have love,_   
_You will always love._   
_For what is in your mind_   
_May escape._   
_But what’s in your heart_   
_Will remain_   
_Forever.'_   
_read the small yellow square._

Sherlock gasped and touched his lips. It was the first kiss the pair had shared in almost 3 years. Sherlock closed his eyes and repressed more sadness. He could still feel the shadow of his John's lips against his own, and he hoped it would never fade. He peeled the note off and read it, his shoulders dropping with affection. He crossed the space between them and looked into John's eyes.

"If there was a way to explain how I am feeling, what I am going through, then I would have explained it and you would know. But there isn't, so you don't, and I'm sorry for assuming that you do. I still absolutely love you with all of my stupid heart, and I always will. I am destined to hurt you, and I hate it, and I hate myself. But what we had when I was an adult was exquisite, John, and behind every exquisite thing that exists, there is something tragic. I am the tragedy behind you, and I am sorry. I miss what we had, what we could have if I was anything less than a freak of nature, but there's no way to fix this." He leant down and cupped John's cheek, his eyes full of misery. "I'm sorry. I honestly wouldn't blame you if you handed me over to Mycroft and walked out of my life. It would be easier for you. But I know you won't."

_John looked up as Sherlock started talking to him, and he sighed shakily. He slowly shook his head. "Don't you dare apologise," he whispered. "Don't you ever apologise for this. It's not your fault that this happened, and it's certainly not anyone's fault that I love you like you do. I will love you until the day you die, and I will keep you and take care of you, whatever happens, I swear to you."_

Sherlock nudged John's eyes shut gently so that he couldn't see Sherlock's teenage face, and leaned forward even further to kiss him properly for the first time in four years, and for the last time ever. Then he pulled away and was out of the room before John had even had chance to open his eyes again.

_He shut his eyes, squeezed them shut against tears that constricted his throat, threatened to run down his face as the soft, familiar lips moved against his. There was a note of finality there, and John had to resist pulling Sherlock back to him when he pulled away._

_The doctor waited until Sherlock's footsteps faded before he let himself cry, a broken sob leaving him as he let out years' worth of tears, curling into himself in his chair._

Sherlock could hear John's cries from his bedroom, but knew better than to go back and kiss away his tears. He meant to take his food out of the microwave and eat it in his room, but he decided against it as the heartbreaking sobs flowed from the living room. He sighed and tried not to cry. He wasn't used to crying this much, and he didn't want to be. He lay on his bed until the noise from the living room stopped and was replaced with the flicking of switches and then John going slowly to bed. He thought he heard footsteps towards his own door, but couldn't be sure. Even if he did, nobody entered and Sherlock remained alone in the dark.

Memories once again came to mind, but passed through slower than before, clearer. Memories that seemed to pass particularly clearly through his hormone infused mind were those of the times that he and John had made love. He remembered and missed the feel of John inside him, John's fingers gripping his curls, holding and being held, loving and being loved. He remembered each time so clearly. "Oh for fucks sake," he murmured, determined to resist the urge to take down his trousers.

*  *  *

_A year later, and nothing was getting any easier. Sherlock was just getting more hormonal, and John was now praying for the day he backed through puberty. It had to be soon, it had to be. His flat was becoming less and less like two men sharing it, and now it was evident that a teenager was there too. He had even found a few questionable magazines in the rack in the bathroom._

_On this particular afternoon, John came home to find Sherlock locked away in the bathroom. At first it didn't bother him, but after about an hour he was starting to get angry. "Sherlock," he called, pounding on the door. "It's been a damn hour, let's go. It's dinner time."_

Earlier in the morning, whilst John had been working, Sherlock had had another panic attack about completely ruining John's life. Sherlock had forced himself out of it, had to force himself out of it, and reinstated in his mind that John loved him (albeit now in a more paternal way, Sherlock thought), and that it would be okay. The shower was to calm down properly. He lost track of how long he was in there. It was at least an hour before he started to actually wash, and even after that he decided to stay and touch himself a little. He stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking at his young, sinewy body. Staring at himself, letting himself drip dry over the towel on the floor, he wondered /why/, not for the first time in his life. /Why/ had he been given this body? How did it work? He stepped closer and inspected his body as closely as he could. It was only after a rather considerable amount of time that he heard John enter the flat, but it didn't disturb him. Another hour passed, and John was knocking on the door.

"Right, yeah, sorry, just.. Thinking."

_"Think in your bloody bedroom."_

_John had had a terrible day at the surgery - his first patient lost in twenty years - and he knew now there was going to be talk of letting him go. He was getting old, his eye sight was going, his hands were developing a bit of a tremor - especially his right hand. All of this together made for a very crabby mood, and he felt sort of bad for taking it out on Sherlock, but he was the closest living thing._

_He went to the fridge and retrieved a beer, going to sit in his armchair, staring absently out the window as he drank it._

Sherlock could hear the stress in John's voice, so he pulled his clothes on quickly and left the bathroom. He crossed the floor to John and sat oppostite him.

"Are you alright?" He furrowed his brow and cocked his head, obviously something had happened today, usually John didn't drink unless it was a weekend. He could also sense that he might receive the irritated end of whatever had happened today, but he still wanted to cheer John up a little.

"Go have a shower. I'll... I'll, er, tidy the kitchen up while you're in there if you want? And order a chinese?"

_"I'm fine," John snapped, putting his bottle down with force, demonstrating just how /not/ fine he really was. He shook his head, scrubbing his hands over his face and standing up. "I think I will have a shower," he said softly, brushing past Sherlock, not looking at him, skirting around him so as not to touch him in any way. Not now, not today. He couldn't think about his crummy life with his crummy circumstances and his crummy flat. It all made him want to cry._

_He gathered pyjamas from his room, and went into the bathroom, turning the shower on hot, so hot it would scald his flesh, and then he stepped under the spray. He knew exactly what he was doing. His mind was slowly telling his body to break down, telling him that in fifteen years there would be nothing left to live for. He was starting to put himself out of his misery already, and he didn't even have any control over it._

Sherlock stared after him quite forlornly, sighing because it was all his fault. He plodded to his room and took some money out of his drawer as John got his pyjamas and stepped into the bathroom. As soon as he heard the water start in the shower, Sherlock crept to the front door and opened it as quietly as he could, bolted down the stairs and next door to the shop. He hadn't been in here since he was roughly 25, it had all changed around. New owners and everything. But he soon found the cooler and picked up a bottle of vimto for himself, because it was almost the same colour as wine, and a bottle of ginger ale for John because it was aesthetically the closest thing to beer there. He also found their old favourite types of muffins and paid for them all quickly, darting back to the flat and sneaking in. He dumped them on the table and cleaned the kitchen as best he could in the limited time, picking up the phone just as John emerged.

_After a nice, hot shower, he toweled himself off and dressed quickly, hissing at the feel of the soft cotton over his bright pink skin, burned sensitive by the hot water. He emerged from the steam to find the kitchen in pristine condition. "Did you call out for Chinese?" he asked of the flat, knowing Sherlock had to be somewhere close by._

"Erm, no, not yet, but I, erm.." his eyes flicked to the bottled drinks and the muffins, hoping John would realise what they meant. He just wanted to remind John that he loved him and that he really did care, that he didn't /want/ to be a little shit all the time, and that he still remembered their entire lives together.

_John stared blankly as Sherlock stuttered, his eyes following Sherlock's gaze to the table. His face immediately twitched into a grimace at the sharp stabbing pain that appeared suddenly, right in his gut, right in his heart. "Why would you..." He shook his head, looking back up at the other male. "What is this?" He didn't know what Sherlock was trying to do, or planning to do, or anything like that. He was lost in wave after wave of emotion and pain and so many emotions he had locked away a year ago._

_"Why would you...how could you." He shook his head, swiping violently at the tears that ran down his face. "This isn't...we aren't." He didn't understand why it was so hard to form a sentence, to think, to breathe. It had to have been a kind gesture, but all John could think of were all of the times they had done this together, and how he had thought that that chapter of their life was over, and here it sat, on the table._

Sherlock was terrified. He had hoped the drinks and cakes would just show John what he meant to Sherlock, he'd just wanted to make him smile. His eyes darted from the table to John rapidly, his mouth hung open and his legs froze.

_"Sherlock..."_

_And then he was crying. Not the silent crying that he did in the shower, or in bed by himself at night, but the disgusting, loud sort of cry. The heartwrenching, cleansing sort of cry that would leave him with hiccups for hours._

"I know, I didn't mean... It's not for th... I just..." He grabbed two fists of hair and gulped, groaning. Suddenly, he dashed towards the table, snatched up all the items in his arms and ran with them to his room, throwing them out of the back window and then rushing back to John, a crumpled mess on the floor. Sherlock threw himself down and wrapped his arms around John.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I didn't want this to happen. John, please." He was crying himself by this point, weeping into John's cardigan. "I just... I wanted to show you that I care. That I remember and... I've lost you, John. We can't ever be what we were, I know, but I've lost you completely. I want my John back. We're like strangers. I'm sorry... I just wanted to see you smile. You think I don't care about you, but god fucking /damn it, John/, you are the /only/ thing I care about." He clung on to John, breathing in the familiar, earthy scent. He had to shake his head and pull back. This was not fair. He was ruining John's life. He couldn't do anything right. In Sherlock's mind, there was only one thing for it.

_John had no idea when he had collapsed onto the floor of the kitchen, but that was certainly where he was when Sherlock came back to him. He leaned into the warmth, buried his head against his shoulder, his entire body shaking now. God, crying like this hurt, but he couldn't stop now. He listened to Sherlock's words and he knew they were all true. He had given up on everything. Because it was easier to pretend it didn't hurt that way, it was easier to imagine that this was normal, that it was all fine, and he was fine, and nothing was wrong._

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I'm calling Mycroft."

_John felt like his heart was being torn slowly out of his chest when Sherlock pulled back, and he looked up at him, face still crumpled into a gargoyle grimace from his tears. Fresh sobs started when the boy announced he was calling Mycroft. The doctor lost the ability to speak for a full minute, all attempts drowned by tears. He reached for Sherlock, clinging to his shirt, pulling him close again, holding onto him desperately, sobbing into his shoulder._

Sherlock's arms instinctively wrapped around John as he was pulled back into him, cradling his head and rocking him slightly to and fro.

_"Don't leave me, Sherlock, please!" he managed to choke out. "Please, I need you, please. I don't want to be alone yet, I can't lose you now, please stay with me, I love you, please!" His words were slurred and blurred together by his tears, but he knew his pathetic, desperate message rang through. If he lost Sherlock now, if Sherlock left him now, on top of everything else, he would run himself into the ground. There would be nothing left for him to wake up for in the morning, and so he would just stop._

"I'm ruining your life no matter what I do, it isn't fair. I love you so much, John, I just want what's best for you. You're all that matters. There's only one path for me, I'm destined for this, but without me, there's hope for you. God knows I don't want to leave, you're my world, but if my staying is going to cause you pain even when I try to do good... I just... I love you so much. I miss you. When was the last time we talked properly? I can't even remember. The last time we hugged, even just as pretend family? We barely know eachother. I miss us. I hate seeing you like this, especially because of me. I'll stay. If you promise to try and make this work, I'll make this easier if you do too. I fucking love you."

His fingers combed through the soft, greying hair as he tried to calm them both down

_John found the smallest bit of comfort in the warmth of Sherlock's arms around him. He squeezed his eyes shut and held onto the young body like he really would get up and leave if he let go._

_"I love you, too, I love you so much, I'm sorry," he repeated over and over again, pushing closer, pulling and stretching the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, still letting out broken little sobs and hiccups, letting it all soak through the soft, sweet-smelling cotton of his Sherlock's shirt. "I'll try harder I'm sorry, I need you, please stay, please Sherlock... I love you so much." His fingers found the dark mess of curls, still damp from the shower, atop his young genious head and stroked slowly over them, wove his fingers through them, held onto him there, too. "_ _I can't live without you, Sherlock, there's nothing left for me if you leave me now. You're all I have, everything."_

"Hey, hey, here, come on!" Sherlock said, wiping John's tears away. "This isn't your fault, none of it is, but we both need to work together. We can do it, I know we can. I love you." He pulled back and smiled, giggled a little; the type of giggle that always happens when you try to stop crying. "Look at us both!" He sniffed, "we're disgusting. Come on, now. Put the telly on and I'll watch a crap film with you. I'll order that Chinese." He stood and made his way to where his phone sat in the kitchen. He turned to John as he picked it up and smiled. "Hey. We can do this."

_John was reluctant to let go of Sherlock when he felt him start to pull away. His grip tightened almost instinctively, before he finally pulled back himself, eyes red and puffy from crying. He let out a soft chuckle of his own, shaking his head, leaning against the cabinet. He watched Sherlock stand up and walk away, and he sighed. "The hospital's gonna fire me," he said, looking up at Sherlock, staring at his face in profile. The same face he had fallen in love with, just with a few decades stripped away. "I lost a patient today. A teenaged boy, brain tumour." He cleared his throat, scrubbing his hands over his face, but still not standing up. "I've got a tremor, my eyesight is going. If not this week, it'll be soon."_

Sherlock shook his head as he waited for the takeaway to pick up, quickly ordering their usual. He licked his lips, shifted his weight, walked across the room to turn the tv on.

"They won't," he said, "They might stop you from operating, but they won't get rid of you, you're one of the best doctors they've ever had. One death in thirty years? Come on! You'll be moved to a different position. Chief of medicine?"

_John slowly climbed to his feet, groaning at the way his bones freaked and popped into an upright position. "No, they'll probably put me out on my arse," he said, shaking his head, but now he was smiling. "Or maybe they'll put me on a special diagnosis team, like that one show you like. The one with the really snarky bastard, with the cane." He chuckled, flopping down onto the sofa, looking up at Sherlock. He reached out, catching Sherlock's hand, pulling him closer, eyes trained on the pale, slender fingers on his own._

_Slowly, the doctor brought the hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss upon it, blue eyes lifting to the bright blue-greens set into the beautifully sculpted face. "If I put your ring on a nice chain," he began, looking down at the hand that he held onto, lifting his other to hold on, too, "would you wear it around your neck?"_

Sherlock smiled and flung himself down next to him, putting his head in his lap carefully, looking straight up at his uncle-husband-John.

"I would wear it if you put it on a sweaty piece of string that you nicked from a tramp. Where is it, anyway?" He had had to entrust it to John when it had started to become too loose to stay on his finger, though he still missed its presence. He looked down at his ring finger and rubbed the space where it had once lived. Sherlock kissed the tip of it and pressed it to John's nose, reaching for the remote with the other and putting it in John's hand.

_John chuckled as Sherlock laid in his lap, gently running his fingers through the dark brown hair, sighing at the familiar soft, velvety feel. He settled back against the smooth, worn leather of their sofa, wrinkling his nose playfully when Sherlock's fingertip pressed against his skin._

_When Sherlock asked where it is, he reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and unzipping the coin pocket part of it. From there, he pulled a small square of blue tissue paper, unfolding it to reveal the simple platinum circle, freshly polished and gleaming even in the dim flickering light of the telly._

Sherlock grinned widely and held out his hand, taking the band and inspecting it. He hummed playfully as he fiddled with it, balancing it on his nose as he waited for John to take it back until they had a chain for it.

"As if you keep it on you, you sentimental git." Sherlock mumbled, yawning. A blush crept into his cheeks from the warmth in the room mixed with the feeling of being the happiest he'd been in months.

_John chuckled, taking the ring from Sherlock's nose and wrapping it carefully back up in the tissue paper, tucking it away in his wallet. "Helps get me through the day," he said with a smile on his face. "Having this with me."_

_He sighed, gently running his fingers down the smooth surface of Sherlock's cheek. "One of us has to be the sentimental one, don't we." He sighed, patting his husband's hair. "Go wait for the Chinese so the knocking doesn't disturb Mrs. Hudson."_

Sherlock obeyed and rolled off the sofa. Walking to the door, he turned back slightly and smiled, "I'm more sentimental than you think. I just can't take the piss out of myself." He opened the door and skipped down the stairs to wait for the takeaway.

_John laughed, brows raised as Sherlock disappeared out the door of their flat. "Little jerk," he muttered, running his fingers through his thinning hair. He was happy now, happier than he had been in an entire year. Maybe all they needed was that moment, that threat that they would be separated prematurely, to knock them back into this state._

As he stood in the cool darkness of the hallway and felt the blush drip from his face, Sherlock fiddled with the tatty piece of paper in his pocket, the one that was with him almost at all times. He never read the words on it anymore, but having it with him was some small comfort. He nodded to himself, determined now to do his absolute best to make John's life as easy as possible. Sherlock answered the door before the delivery man had even knocked, just because he could, thanked and payed him before bounding back up the stairs two at a time. He plated up and precariously carried all the food over to John, sitting next to him again. "I hate this movie," he smiled. "Brilliant."

_John looked up as Sherlock came back in, having not even heard him come up the stairs. He sat the remote on the table, taking his plate from Sherlock. "How can you not like this movie? It's practically the best movie ever made!" He smiled, nudging Sherlock playfully with his elbow. "Besides, you said I could pick the movie."_

"Highly illogical even without the vampires. But yes, I did, that's why I said I would watch a /crap/ film with you," he smiled. The happy blush came back into his cheek and he hummed contentedly.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock could hear Molly and John talking, somewhere. Molly had been looking after him today for John, to give him a break, as she sometimes did nowadays. Sherlock stifled a giggle. He and Molly had been making a cake for John, but as it was cooling, Sherlock had ran off with a spoon and the jar of Nutella, and he sat now at the bottom of John's wardrobe, clutching them both in his skinny seven-year-old hands. Not to be a mischeif, just so John and Molly could talk for a while. He liked Molly, and he thought that it would be nice for her and John to talk now that he was home. The Nutella was almost all gone.

_"Thanks again, Molly," John said warmly, wrapping the woman in his arms and giving her a gentle squeeze and a peck on the cheek. "I really appreciate it."_

_He let her out, and slowly walked towards his bedroom. "Sherlock," he sang, peeking around the door, into the dim room. "Come out. Let's frost the lovely cake that you made." He opened the door of his wardrobe, grinning. "Boo," he whispered, reaching down and hauling him over his shoulder. "If you got Nutella on my suit, I'm going to skin you," he said, laughing._

Sherlock squealed with delight when John found him. The suit was clean, but Sherlock's face was a different matter. He giggled against John as he was carried into the kitchen, messy curls bouncing with the rest of his head. Before he was put down, he hugged against John's head and pressed sticky kisses against his cheeks. "We made it for you! You're hooooome!"

_John grimaced playfully at the chocolatey kisses pressed over his face. "Ew, you're all sticky," he said in a whiney voice, shaking his head and putting the boy down. "No more Nutella for you, you're bouncing off of the walls already." He peered into the container, seeing it was almost empty before screwing the lid back on and putting it back into its place in the cabinet._ _"What sort of frosting did Molly get for your cake?"_

Sherlock wriggled away and climbed onto one of the chairs by the table so he could get to the cake, setting the jar and spoon down next to it. "Erm she got lemon but I told her you'd prefer chocolate. Was I right? We got both anyway. But was I right? I bet I was."

_John smiled, gently patting the soft, springy curls on Sherlock's head, brushing one carefully away from his forehead. "Of course you were right," he murmured. "You're always right, aren't you." He sighed, moving to rummage through a cabinet for the jar of frosting. "Go wash your face, alright? And then when you come back, we can decorate together."_

Sherlock whined but went to the bathroom anyway, pulling his step up in front of the sink and reaching for his cloth. He scrubbed his face until it was flushed and spotless, running back into the kitchen and back into his chair.

"I knew I'd be right. I did tell Auntie Molly. She just laughed." he said quickly. "I'm glad you're back, it's weird without you home."

_John stood beside Sherlock's chair when the little boy came bounding back into the kitchen, fresh-faced. He opened the container of frosting and picked up the knife, but before he could hand them to Sherlock, the boy was covering his hands with his own smaller hands. "I know you don't like it when I'm gone. Aunt Harry just needed someone to sit with her for a while." His sister had fallen ill almost a month ago, and she had just recently been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It was treatable, but she still felt ill and liked to have someone in her room at the hospital with her at all times._

Sherlock put the frosting can into John's hands, and put his hands on John's, guiding them into shapes on the cake. He giggled with his tongue stuck out, concentrating on the shaky smiley face he drew using John's hands.

"Can we have cake for dinner?"

_"No, we can't have cake for dinner," John laughed. "But if you eat all of your dinner, you can have a slice of cake for dessert." He dipped his finger into the frosting, and tapped Sherlock on the nose playfully, sucking the rest of the chocolate from his finger before continuing frosting the cake._

"I /just washed/." Sherlock complained, wiping the tip of his nose on his arm. When the cake was fully decorated, Sherlock padded over the floor to the living room.

Almost at the sofa, he tripped up and ended up face down on the hard floor. He groaned and looked up, but an item behind the sofa caught his eye. Frowning, he narrowed his eyes and stared at it, not able to make it out. He crawled a little closer, and it struck in his mind. He glanced back at John, as if to ask if it was okay to go closer. His little arm reached out and grabbed the thinnest part of the object, standing as he picked it up and looking quickly between it and John. His eyes rested on it, and he held the old violin out.

_John covered the cake carefully and sat it on the counter. It would be ready now for after dinner. He heard the dull thud of a body hitting the floor, and he moved quickly - well, as quickly as a man of sixty years could move - to the doorway of the living room, looking in to see the young body sprawled out on the floor. "You alright?" he asked.His eyes widened and he felt his heart constrict painfully in his chest as the little boy pulled his violin from behind the sofa. /That/ was what he kept forgetting to do, take the instrument to Harry's, like he did with all of the other things Sherlock had forgotten._

"This... Was mine. Wasn't it? I can't... It seems familiar." Sherlock's eyes grew wide with worry, as if he had found something that had never existed.

 

_"Yes, it was -- I mean, it /is/ yours. You forgot how to play a few months ago. I kept meaning to put it away but...I guess I forgot." John smiled sadly, shrugging his shoulders._

Sherlock frowned at it, plucked at the strings experimentally.

"...Can I keep it?" he asked, walking over to John and wrapping his spare arm around his leg, looking up with huge blue eyes. "I'll take good care of it. I promise." He let go and put the instument under his chin. It felt familiar, but he knew he would never play it again. He looked up again at John, one hand around the violin, the other around the ring that hung from his neck. Sherlock knew that the ring was his, and that it was important because John had one too, and that it showed that he and John would always be together, but he couldn't remember receiving it. His hand always automatically clasped around it whenever he tried to remember something about his past. It was his favourite possession. He smiled up at John, hoping it would get him his way. "Please?"

_John's hand automatically rested atop Sherlock's head as the boy wrapped an arm around him. He stood for a moment, wondering whether he should let the boy keep the instrument or not. It was just a matter of time before he forgot about it again, and maybe John could put it away then. Into his sister's attic with everything else. All of Sherlock's old clothes. His microscope. All of their photo albums. Their wedding box, with Sherlock's suit, the cake toppers, all of their official documents._

_He watched the slender hand wrap around the ring that hung over his chest, and John added that to the list of things that would have to go soon - along with the one that he still wore on his finger. "Of course you can keep it," he said, trying to pretend his voice hadn't wavered, trying to hide it behind a tight smile. "I'll show you how to take care of it, tomorrow."_

_He turned away from the boy, letting the smile drop from his face, but managing to keep his tone almost cheery. "What do you want for dinner?"_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on the ring, putting the violin on the table.

"I want to keep the ring. I won't forget that it's important. I just don't remember how I got it, that's all. I know it links me to you. Don't you want me anymore? Is that why you looked at both of the rings, just now? I want to keep it. I won't let you take it." He turned on his heel, fist still clenched over the ring, and flung himself face-down onto the sofa. "And I've told you," his muffled voice came up through the fabric, "cake."

_"Sherlock," John murmured, trying to remain calm, to be reasonable and rational. But it was just so hard when his situation was so unreasonable and irrational. "That's not it at all, how could you think that I don't want you?" He shook his head, swallowing past the lump in his throat, following after Sherlock, kneeling slowly beside the sofa. "But you'll forget. You'll forget everything." He sighed, laying a gentle, warm hand against the boy's back. "You're going to wake up one morning, and you're going to look at me and say, 'what's this, John,' and I'm going to have to take it." He cleared his throat, shaking his head. "I don't want to, but I'll have to." He patted Sherlock's back gently, rubbed two slow circles, and then pulled away, slowly climbing to his feet. "No cake for dinner," he said, walking off towards the kitchen. "How about chicken and rice? We haven't had chicken in a while."_

Sherlock's face peeped up from the seat of the sofa a little as he watched John.

"Can I just have rice? I'm sorry, John. I don't want you to be sad."

He took a deep breath and swung around, pushing himself up and walking down the hall to his room. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and took out his pad of paper and some felt tip pens, drawing a diagram of the ring and labelling it, writing that it was important and that it kept him and John together, and mostly that he was not to forget it. He stuck it on the wall beside his bed and left for the kitchen, sitting patiently at the table and drumming on it gently

_"It's alright, Sherlock. It's not your fault." John carefully measured out water, pulling the bag of rice from one of the lower cabinets. He pulled a package of chicken breasts from the fridge, and skillfully cut the fat from each, slicing them into small pieces and heating up a pan to fry them in._

_Sherlock came back into the room as dinner was about finishing up, and he put some rice onto the plate, along with a few pieces of chicken. "Eat the chicken, too, and we'll see about your cake." He smiled, gently ruffling the boy's curls._

_John made up his own plate and sat down opposite Sherlock, watching the boy as he ate his first few bites before starting on his own._

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out playfully as John sat down opposite him. He ate most of the food on his plate, leaving only a few pieces of chicken and the odd grain of rice, wanting to please John. While he waited for John to finish too, he arranged his food on his plate, cutting it up and moving it around, to make two figures. He turned his plate around and pushed it towards John.

_John looked up as he heard the scrape of Sherlock's fork on his plate, and he sighed, watching the boy move his food around. "Don't play with your food," he said softly, shaking his head, stacking his plate on top of Sherlock's and moving to put their plates in the sink._

"I'm full. That was nice, though. Can I have a bath after my cake?"

_The old man got out two dessert plates and uncovered the cake, cutting two pieces and carefully laying them onto the plates. He turned back to the table, setting down both slices, letting Sherlock have the first pick. "Of course you can have a bath when you're done. Maybe we can watch a movie tonight, too, we haven't done that in a while."_

Sherlock's cake disappeared a lot quicker than his main course had, and he was rather proud of it despite the fact that Molly had done most of the work.

"Do you like it? It's alright if you don't. But don't tell Aunt Molly. You can take some to Aunt Harry if you like. From me. I'd like her to have some. Tell her it's from me. Will you do that?" Sherlock chattered away quickly as John ate, barely giving him time to respond. He fidgeted in his chair, smiling at John.

_John's smile was fond and warm as Sherlock fired off sentence after sentence. After the first two, he didn't even try to answer until he was all done. "The cake was delicious, love, thank you. Maybe we can take some to Aunt Harry together tomorrow. For Aunt Clara, too." He put the last bit of the cake into his mouth, clearing away their plates while he chewed and Sherlock went scurrying off for his bath._

Once in the bath, he calmed down a little, calling John in to help him wash his hair and stepping out into a thick fluffy towel as his hair was dried with another. He giggled quite sleepily, put his pyjamas on and held onto John's hand as they sat on the sofa and put a film on. "John. I'm happy. I just thought you should know," Sherlock said with a yawn.

_John managed to change into his own pyjamas before Sherlock was shouting for him through the flat. He washed the thick, dark mess of curls, and then dried them when the young male got out of the tub, smile on his face the whole time. He loved moments like these. Moments where he didn't have to think about anything but Sherlock laughing and smiling and shaking his wet hair like a dog at John._

_The old man pulled Sherlock closer to him, pulling the boy's small frame against his side and wrapping his arm around him. "Good. You deserve to be happy." He placed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead, then relaxed back against the couch, content with the feeling of warmth against his side._

Sherlock buried himself in the warmth of John's side and hummed. "So do you. Love you."

Sherlock picked up John's hand and played with it, counting the fingers and turning the ring around as John watched the film. As Sherlock began to grow more weary, he payed more attention to the movie and was content with just holding on to John's thumb and cuddling up to him.

"Has your taste in films," he yawned, "always been this bad?"

_John felt warmth swell in his heart and a smile blossom across his lips. "Love you even more," he said softly, flexing his fingers as Sherlock played with them, catching his small hand now and then, playfully. He closed his fingers as Sherlock's came to rest, stilled around his thumb._

_"Hey!" John protested, voice lilting over a laugh. "This isn't a bad film. It's a lovely romance! Something a sentimental old fart like me really enjoys." He sighed, squeezing Sherlock's thin body for just a moment. "Someone's sleepy," he whispered._

"Not," Sherlock protested, wrapping his arms around John's belly. He snuggled closer and pulled John's arm further over him, like a scarf. He tried to watch the film, but his eyelids drooped more and more with each passing minute. Stifling his yawns, he tried to convince John that he didn't need to go to bed, because he didn't want to stop doing this. He was warm and happy and full and he had his John who was also warm and happy and full.

_"You are," John teased, but he didn't say any more on the subject, just let Sherlock snuggle closer. He sighed happily, watching the screen for a while longer before looking down at Sherlock, who was dozing against his chest._

_"Come on, sweetheart, it's bed time," he murmured, turning off the telly and pulling Sherlock into his lap so he could pick him up as he stood. "Do you want to sleep in your bed, or with me tonight?"_

Sherlock just about managed to mumble out a "You" as he decided whether or not he was awake. He could feel that he was being carried, strong arms wrapped around him, but the next thing that he was acutely aware of was being slipped beneath thick covers in the warm, familiar expanse of John's bed. He felt the other side of the bed sink and instinctively rolled over to wrap his arms around one of John's. He wasn't often allowed to sleep in John's bed, but he slept a lot better when he did, he felt safer and often fell asleep smiling.

"Love you," he murmured into John's arm before drifting off into a heavy, dark sleep

_John sighed as Sherlock rolled into his chest, curling against him. He was so warm and small against him, and as he listened to the boy's breathing steady and deepen, listened to him fall asleep, it brought a wave of cool sadness over him. He rested his lips against Sherlock's forehead, giving him a goodnight kiss, even though he was long gone into neverland._

_"I love you even more," he whispered against his skin._

Sherlock woke early. He lay cuddled up to John, silent and observant in the warm bed as the morning peeked nosily around the curtains until he could stand the silence no longer.

"John, wake up," he whispered, nudging his side gently. "Wake up."

He kissed John's cheek until he saw his eyes flicker open, and smiled up at him

_John stirred slowly at the warm, sloppy kisses to his cheek, and he grumbled as he blinked awake. "I'm awake, I'm awake," he mumbled, eyes finally blinking the whole way open, staring down at the boy there, beaming at him. "What a great way to start the day," he said, voice soft and sincere. He leaned forward and gently kissed Sherlock's nose, before slowly sitting up, groaning as his joints popped and creaked._

_"What do you want for breakfast?" he asked, looking back at Sherlock, still laying, curls sticking every which way over his pillow._

Sherlock grabbed on to the back of John's pyjamas.

"No! Not yet. Stay a bit. Tell me a story? Please?" He pleaded, not wanting to leave the warm fortress just yet. He tried to comb his fingers through his tangled hair and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, looking up at John with his bottom lip slightly protruding.

_John smiled and laid back down with a sigh, pulling Sherlock closer. "A story? I think I can tell you a story. I'm good at those."_

_He ran his fingers through the tangled mess of curls for a moment, before taking a deep breath and starting. "Once, there was a grumpy, lonely doctor. He was sure that he would be alone for the rest of his life, and he was alright with that. But that all changed when he ran into a crazy, off-the-wall, confusing-as-hell detective. It was raining, and the doctor asked him up for tea until a cab came to take him back home. They had a good time, laughing and talking. When the detective left, the doctor was sad. He couldn't wait to see the detective again." He looked over at Sherlock, staring into the boy's wide eyes._

_"On the night of their first official date, they laid in the park, drinking beer and wine, and having lovely chocolate muffins. They both knew that they were in love. The detective moved in with the doctor, and they were happier than happy. For ten whole years, they lived in bliss. Then, the doctor finally got the courage to ask the detective to marry him." John paused, licking his lips, turning to stare at the ceiling. "It was an impulse, at first, but after he had asked, he realised that there was no one he would rather spend his life with. Their ceremony was small - just close friends and family, but the doctor and the detective loved each other more than life, and that had always been all that mattered."_

_He cleared his throat, pasting on a smile and glancing down at Sherlock. "And they...they lived happily ever after," he whispered._

Sherlock felt something twinge inside him and remained silent for a few moments after the end of the story. His hand left John's chest and found its way to the ring around his neck. His brow furrowed and his eyes flicked back and forth.

_John watched as Sherlock gripped the ring, and he wrapped his fingers around the small fist, squeezing gently, nodding slowly as he looked at the confused little face. He hadn't expected Sherlock to remember, hadn't meant for the boy to get sad over it._

"That's... Is that...? That was..." He stammered, heart pounding. The story seemed so familiar, so personal. It was obvious to Sherlock what had happened when he saw the masked pain on John's face. He put his head on his chest and squeezed, trying to comfort John and silently apologising for bringing it up. "I think maybe the doctor and the detective didn't have a happy ever after, but they didn't mind because they still had eachother. I think that would be a better ending." He squeezed once more before letting go and putting a small hand on the doctor's cheek, then crawling out of the bed and to the bathroom, something still nagging at his insides.

_"I think the fact that the detective and the doctor still have each other makes it a happy ending." He squeezed the boy against his chest, sighing against his hair. He let the boy move away from him, and blinked wide blue eyes when the little hand caressed his cheek. God, it was so close to what Sherlock used to do. Just similar enough to pluck his heartstrings in the wrong way._

_He got up, following Sherlock to the bathroom. "Sherlock, are you okay?" he said softly, gently tapping on the door._

Sherlock stood in front of the mirror and looked at the ring.

"Yeah, fine, I'll be out in a minute, sorry." His little voice called back, hands shaking as they once again took hold of the metal band on a chain. He and John used to be married. They had been married and had been completely and utterly in love. It dawned on Sherlock that the ring he wore would have been his wedding ring in his old life, the one he couldn't remember. It made sense, now, but he still couldn't wrap his clever little mind around it. His John. His father figure, his best friend. They had been in love. Sherlock didn't know what to do with this information except open the door and hug John for being so brave. So that's what he did. He wrapped his arms around brave, strong, caring, loving John as soon as he opened the door.

"I don't know how you do it," he whispered.

_John leaned on the door frame, waiting for Sherlock to come out of the bathroom. He was a little worried, but he wouldn't pressure him out of there. He was always respectful of people's boundaries._

_When the door opened, he looked down at the boy, gently patting his head as Sherlock hugged him. "How I do what," he said softly, bending to pick the boy up, holding him on his hip. "I make sure that you're loved and cared for, just like you wanted." He kissed Sherlock's forehead, carrying him to the kitchen and setting him down on the counter_

Sherlock looked into the deep blue eyes he knew so well.


End file.
